


Right Under Hell's Gate

by SimplyEmotional



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Angst, Artist Castiel, Bottom Dean, Castiel Fixes That, Dark, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Doctor Castiel, Domestic Violence, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Protective Castiel, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Subspace, Tattoos, Top Castiel, Violence, mentions of minor character death, underground fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyEmotional/pseuds/SimplyEmotional
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester thoroughly believed that this was the life he deserved. That the blood and the sickening smell of infection that oozed from his wounds was his own fault. His own fault for believing in something better, for believing that Alastair wasn't taking care of him the way he needed to be taken care of. </p>
<p>He deserved it because he was greedy, because he craved something more than the constant shouting of roughed up men and the aftertaste of skin on bloody skin. Life was the smell of sweat and the agonizing pain of his back followed by whispered lies of, "You're beautiful" and "I love you." </p>
<p>However, a blue eyed man that decides to show up at the bar seven hours before opening out of some random twist of fate manages to infiltrate Dean's thoughts. "You're beautiful." It sounded weird from someone else's lips, but that low gravely voice made him want to, more than anything, believe it was true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Devil Has Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies~ This is not my first fan fiction, but my very first one on this site as well as my very first Destiel work. I in no way own Supernatural or any of it's characters. (obviously) (Now I'm wishing I did) (Heavy Sigh) (Sob). As this is my first fan fiction on Archive of Our Own, I would ask you guys to be gentle in comments and or questions. I plan on updating as regularly as possible, most likely once a week. (Thinking Mondays?) 
> 
> I'm currently writing "Right Under Hell's Gate" because I crave more Abusive Alastair/Hurt Dean than there is available on the inter-webs, and love it when Castiel comes to save Dean because we all know that Dean has the worst self-worth issues than anyone else. (And Castiel likes to change that of course.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it~

There was nothing that came close to the feeling Dean got when the edges of his vision started to blur. Everything was easier that way. Your enemy of the night became less humane; face blurred into a perfect intoxicated image. Only the shouting of rough voices and the slapping of darkening skin echoed around him. This was real. This was _pure_. He could feel the pain as though it was smoke in his lungs, all present and suffocating. It wasn't until he heard the large man shout, “Third round,” that Dean finally noticed the rapidly expanding stain under his feet. Glancing from his red tipped toes to the man’s red face before him he smirked. Dean always won by the third round; it was one of the reasons why Alastair had taken such an interest in him before…before…  
Dean’s hands burned as he rushed the man, delivering an expert hit straight into the man’s stomach. As the ‘enemy’ fell over, Dean tilted his head to the side and gritted his jaw. ‘Stay down’, his mind growled out before his mouth could process the words enough to make sound. The man’s eyes were puffy, cheeks swollen and body torn in places that screamed for medical assistance. None would come and Dean knew that well. Down here it was almost like a policy. You lose and you end up dying, whether from the ever popular bleeding out or various other injuries. (Except for that lucky bastard that managed to reach the hospital last week.) It was one of Alastair’s favorite parts of “The Pit”; death was ever so welcome.  


It took him a moment to collect himself as he raised his hands above his bloody head, the crowd breaking into a system of cheerful roars. A hand at the back of his throat shocked him out of his self-entitled applause. Alastair stood tall behind him in the center of the makeshift arena, jerking Dean’s head to the side with a smile.  
“Congrats Dean, you made me very happy tonight.”  
It shouldn't have reached him in the way it did, but Dean felt a small smile tug at the edge of his chapped lips. He allowed Alastair to lead him out of the arena and up the rickety stairs to the back entrance of “Hell’s Gate” bar. He was expecting it and yet it never got easier. Hands were on his chest the second they were inside the dark and presently empty building. Fingernails raked over his sensitive injuries, a leg shifting itself in-between his own. Up against the wall of the bar, Dean struggled to stay conscious. This was Alastair’s favorite part and Dean needed to make sure he was present for it.  


“You’re beautiful like _this_.”  


Even though Dean didn't believe it, Alastair did and that was enough for him. Alastair’s fingertips pressed deeply into an especially sensitive bruise forming on his hip and he gritted his teeth. Lips met his in a blazing inferno of a kiss, head falling back as Alastair’s tongue traced his neck. Dean’s eyes shot open as teeth tore skin, a light and strangled whine rushing out of his mouth. Alastair loved the sounds Dean made, and he knew better than to stifle them. His pride used to get in the way, but that had been broken down over the years under Alastair’s hands. He used to scream and beg, but now he simply allowed the man to take what he wanted. On nights like this, Dean was content with the act. After all, he’d only be present for another ten minutes or so. After that, it was up to Alastair to do what he wanted.  


Alastair’s knee moved up to grind against Dean’s crotch, trying to rile Dean up. The longer the adrenaline was in Dean’s body, the longer Dean would manage to stay with him. Dean however, remained limp in his torn and bloody jeans.  


“Fine.”

Alastair scoffed, his hands tracing down the edges of Dean’s jaw. Within a moment’s time, those hands were tightly clutched around Dean’s throat. Panic set in as it always did, but Dean allowed it to happen. Alastair used to punish Dean like this if he wouldn't participate during what Alastair had once called, “making love”. Now though, this was almost a reward compared to the other punishments Alastair had created over the years. Must have fought well for Alastair to treat him like this. His vision blurred as it had during the fight only minutes before, and he allowed himself to fall into that abyss. Wasn't that what he’d wanted anyway, an escape from the voices in his head; an escape from the man in front of him.  


There were no interesting words to describe how the next morning felt for Dean Winchester. He awoke like any other day, sprawled out and hurting on the floor of the bar he worked at. His naked skin was chilled by the lack of any covering, an unbearable pain spreading from his lower back. Dean pulled himself up on stiff and shaking legs as he headed to the bathroom. He stared irately at the ‘employees only’ sign as though attempting to distract himself from the situation. Stumbling into the sink, he risked a glance at himself in the mirror.  
Weary and puffy eyes looked back at him and he shook his head to rid himself of the image. Instantly, he regretted it as a sharp pain twisted through his right temple. ‘Damn bastard hit me good.’ His body was a mess of bruises and dried blood. Alastair had doubled the damage he noticed, examining the obvious new whip lines across his back. ‘Well’, Dean thought, ‘not like I didn't deserve it.’ Seeing as Alastair and Dean owned “Hell’s Gate” together, Alastair had put in a shower for Dean within the employee restroom for these types of occasions.  


Dean found himself greatly annoyed with the lack of warm water as he stepped into the tub, tilting his head into the cold stream. He had a long day ahead of him. Sighing heavily, he ran his hands through his short hair, taking note of every injury on his body as the water burned against each one. Lacking the medical kit they used to have, Dean decided the water would have to do as a suitable disinfectant. As he stepped out he was surprised to see clothes waiting for him, unsure if Alastair had put them there last night or had dropped in silently. He prayed for the first option. Pulling on his plain black t-shirt, he was careful of his previous injuries and the new additions to his back. Reaching down he pulled up his pants, making sure to wear the belt buckle that Alastair had purchased for him in the first year of their relationship. It reminded him of better times, and Dean needed that on these types of days.  


Checking the dull clock on the wall, Dean headed out of the bathroom and began taking the stools down off of the bar. He worked mechanically as he had for some time, moving around tables and setting up his stock so that it perfectly filled the shelves behind him. The bar itself was gorgeous, the floors a beautiful wood and the walls lined with images of classic cars. It was something that Dean used to be proud of before…before... Wiping down the counter top, he paused to look at his reflection. Other than a slight bruise around his right temple, not much was amiss. At least the fighter, and Alastair, had spared his face. After all, that was his main selling point when it came to gaining more customers.  


A knock on the main door surprised Dean, and he tilted his head to the side as he glanced over at the clock again. It was eleven in the freaking morning, who the hell goes to a bar at eleven in the morning? Walking over to the large door, Dean carefully unlocked it, opening it halfway.  


“Dude, we’re closed. Can’t you read the sign?”  


“Yes, I suppose I can.”  


“Well…” Dean’s voice softened, “we open at six if you want to come back then?”  


It wasn't until Dean heard the man shuffle uncomfortably that he finally looked up to meet the man’s eyes. It was as though he was staring into an ocean, unbearably clear and blue. The man’s eyes met his with a certain understanding, eyes that were able to see past faces and bone structure into the very center of what you were made out of. Dean turned away, running a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers came in contact with his bruised temple.  


“Very well then.” The man said, “I’ll be back at six.”  


Blue eyes turned, Dean watching as he began to walk away. The man had to have been just a tad shorter than Dean, dressed in a very classy gray suit with the most unexpected trench coat draped over his shoulders.  


“What the hell…?” Dean murmured to himself, turning around and shutting the door behind him. ‘Weird’, he thought as he went back to getting the bar ready, himself included. Dean knew that it was going to be an extremely long workday, if the aching in his bones, skin, and nerves had anything to do with it.


	2. Those Blue Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean opens the bar as usual, and who should return but the blue eyed stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again lovelies, thank you all so much for coming along on this new journey~ I know I said I'll update on Mondays, but I got home today and the idea for the second chapter just struck me like lightening, so I hope you all enjoy this. (The third chapter will be released on Monday) Trigger Warnings for Non-Con/Weird Non-Con and Graphic Violence. (Though not really.) 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and feel free to leave kudos, comments, and whatever else your heart feels is right. (:

Dean opened the bar at six, watching the usual customers filter in with loud boasting voices. He slunk back to his place behind the bar, aimlessly running a warm cloth over already sparkling glasses. Dean distracted himself with serving the various types of men, laughing heartily with a couple of them and avoiding others. He’d been so distracted that he hadn't even noticed the man from earlier walking in. Dean was mixing a drink when he heard someone sit down right behind him. Turning, with his eyes still on the drink in his hand, he faked his best smile. “What can I get for you?” He asked casually, sliding the mixed drink down towards the husky woman at the end of the bar. 

“Your best whiskey.” 

Dean remembered that voice and his eyes fluttered up to meet the man’s. 

“Ah, you came back.” 

The other man seemed un-amused that Dean assumed he wouldn't keep his word and tilted his head to the side with narrowed eyes. 

“Why wouldn't I?” 

The man interrogated, and Dean simply shrugged as he turned to grab the whiskey from the shelf. 

“Don’t take me seriously man, just making conversation.” 

“Sure you are.”

Dean scoffed, gritting his teeth as he glanced at the man.

“Look dude, if you've got a problem with-“

The man simply smiled, and raised his hands in surrender.

“I am simply ‘making conversation’ as you are.” 

Dean decided that this man was playing a game, and Dean also decided that he did not want to play it. Setting the drink down in front of the man, Dean leaned forward with his elbows on the bar so he could better see the man’s face. He was fairly pale with dark black hair that occasionally fell lightly onto his forehead in soft wisps. He was your stereotypical ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ as Dean’s own brother was typically described.  
“My name is Castiel Novak.” Castiel reached his hand out over the bar, but he almost seemed hesitant. That did not go unnoticed by Dean. 

“Nice to meet you, Casti…Cas. I’m Dean, I own this bum filled bar.” Dean peered at Castiel’s hand for a few moments and then slowly took it in his own in a makeshift handshake. It was in that moment that Castiel could feel the entirety of small collections of scars across Dean’s palm and the quaint way the muscles in his hand shook. An observation instantly popped straight into his mind. 

“All by yourself?” Castiel asked almost innocently.

“With my…partner.” 

“Oh, where is he? Surely he doesn’t leave you here to run this whole place yourself?” 

“He’s currently at work.”

“He doesn’t work here?”

“Look man, I just met you. Stop it with the questions game.”

Dean grew utterly defensive and was grateful when he was needed at a table far enough away from Castiel. Castiel took the time that Dean was away to arrange the information Dean had given him. It was obvious to Castiel that Dean had experienced many things in life that surpassed what Castiel knew of human suffering. He could tell in the board-like way the man walked, and the hesitance he had whenever eyes so much as slanted onto his body. Not to mention the bruise on his temple, a very sensitive area in fact. It was amazing to Castiel that Dean wasn’t suffering from a severe migraine. 

When Dean returned Castiel was too deep in thought to notice. Dean waved his hand in front of the other man’s face, laughing when Castiel jumped as he was interrupted from his thoughts. 

“Long night?” Dean asked, knowing the spaced-out look well.

“I guess you could say that.” 

Dean smiled as he poured Castiel another round, saying it was on the house.

“So what do you do for a living?”

“It’s complicated. I suppose you could say I was a doctor, but of what I couldn’t tell you. I’ve attempted everything; psychical therapist, surgeon, paramedic, you name it and I’ve done it.” 

“Well, what are you now then?” Dean asked curiously, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

“An aspiring artist.” 

Dean laughed deeply at that and Castiel decided that he much appreciated the sound of Dean’s laugh. He committed it to memory, not wanting to forget the rough yet undeniably beautiful sound of it. 

“Do you find that humorous?”

“Of course. You’re on your way to being a sophisticated doctor and shit and then you pick to become an artist. Isn’t that sort of settling? You know the difference in pay grade, right?”

“Of course I do. You sound an awful lot like my family.” Castiel snapped, eyes narrowing angrily. 

Dean raised his hands in surrender as Castiel had done about twenty minutes ago. 

“Alright, alright Cas. What sort of art are we talking about here?”

Castiel’s mood instantly lifted and he smiled contentedly. He always loved to talk about his work, and the fact that this gorgeous man in front of him was actually interested in hearing about it made his heart swell. 

“It’s a little unorthodox, but I love painting injuries that I’ve treated in the past. Occasionally I paint scenes in which a character is injured, and I paint others in which their injury is non-existent. It’s a way for me to represent the knowledge I’ve learned in the medical field with art.” 

Dean felt himself shutter, eyes straying from Castiel’s content expression to the counter of the bar. 

“That’s awesome, Cas.” Dean said, forcing a smile, reaching up to gently graze the bruise on his temple.

The action caught Castiel’s attention and drew his eyes to the area.

“What exactly happened, Dean?” He asked, though he had an idea Dean wouldn’t answer honestly even if he wanted to.

“Oh, the stupidest thing actually…” He spaced out for a minute before grinning and continuing the explanation. “I was attempting to fix the TV upstairs when it started falling back, and in my rush to catch it, I banged my head on the entertainment center.”  
It was the worst lie Dean could have come up with according to Castiel, and his eyes narrowed. 

“Must be painful hitting such a sensitive area and all.”

“No, not at all really, it’s all good. Accidents happen.” 

“Yeah…accidents happen.” Cas sighed, tapping his fingers on the bar.

Castiel deeply wanted to stay and chat with Dean more, but he knew that he needed to get home and call Gabriel or his brother would tease him with another one of those ‘I knew you were out shagging’ lines that he loves so much. 

“Well, Dean, I will see you tomorrow.”

Dean looked greatly surprised by this, and it unnerved Castiel to no end.

“Um, yeah, sweet. Remember we open at six, all right? No more creeping around before opening.” Dean scolded, but he really wouldn’t mind if Castiel decided to drop in early.

“I’m aware of your opening time now, do not worry.” 

And that was all Dean was left with as Castiel pulled his trench coat on over his shoulders and headed out the door. Dean did his best to forget about their encounter, choosing to busy himself with the other patrons. 

When two came around that morning, Dean shook off any thoughts of Castiel as he shut down the bar. There was only one straggler, and to Dean’s relief, he left quickly after Dean addressed him. Turning off the lights, Dean locked the door and headed downstairs. When he opened the large piece of metal the hinges squeaked greatly only hidden by the familiar shouting of men. The fights must have started early. “The Pit”, as it was called, was a large coliseum like room. Makeshift benches rested in a raised circle around a mangled and bloodied ‘pit’ or low piece of ground. Dean was a fighter and the pit was his ring. Heading to his left, he entered the prep room. With hesitant fingers he slowly began to peel off his shirt. 

Burning, a feeling of his skin being on fire minus the wretched smell, met his oversensitive senses. 

“It’s just like a band-aid…” Dean said in a rough voice as he tore the shirt away from his wounds in one go. A stifled cry echoed around the room and Dean flinched at the rough sound of his own voice. 

“My, my, my…”

Alastair stood in the doorway, a wide shit eating grin on his face. 

“You’ve gone and made yourself a hot mess again Dean and right before your fight too…” He paused for a moment before slithering over to Dean.

“Not that I mind.”

Arms wrapped around Dean’s bare chest, the fabric of Alastair’s white wife-beater (ironic) rubbing against his open wounds.  
“Dean…” Alastair whispered in a taunting moan, tongue flicking across Dean’s earlobe and tracing an invisible line down Dean’s neck. He then began to rub himself against Dean’s back, grinding his evident erection against Dean’s ass. Dean whimpered in agony, his blood staining Alastair’s shirt as the man’s hand moved to grip his neck from behind. 

“Do you feel it, Dean? Do you feel what I made you into?” 

Dean could only nod, his voice taken by the overwhelming flashes of stinging flesh and the beating of his heart in his ears. ‘Push him away.’ He thought, ‘Damn it! Fight back!’ But Dean’s thoughts were nothing compared to the trained obedience that his body knew well. Thusly, he stood where he was, allowing Alastair to taunt him and pour theoretical salt on his wounds. 

“Good.” Alastair whispered into his ear.

Suddenly Dean’s back was met with a burst of cold air and an empty room. He turned to where Alastair had been, gritting his teeth against the pain and dripping sensation he felt across his back. Movement out of the corner of his eyes caught his attention and he swiveled towards the door. Alastair stood there, his bloody shirt wrinkling around his flat stomach as he moved to lean against the doorframe.  
“Get ready to fight Dean. Raphael said he’d send his best. I don’t plan on you losing.”  
Dean coughed, whether in acknowledgement or illness it was hard to tell. However, it was more than enough of a response for Alastair. 

“Good boy.”

And with that, Dean was finally truly alone. Sitting down on the steel bench in the locker-room style space, he did his best not to strain the muscles in his back. A laugh escaped his full lips as he rested his face in his hands. In ten minutes he would care less about the wounds on his back, about this place, about anything really… Thoughts of blue eyes rushed through his mind and he flinched automatically, wondering why of all things he would think about Castiel. Sure, the man had been attractive, but he would never think of Dean in that light. Alastair had accepted Dean for the monster that he was, Castiel never would. 

“Selfish bastard,” Dean whispered to himself, “You’re always such a selfish bastard…”  
Tilting he head back he laughed once more allowing himself to use all the air in his lungs. 

“You don’t even know him…he doesn’t even know you…” 

Digging his nails into the skin of his arms he closed his eyes. 

 

“Shut up! Shut up!” 

His hands moved up to grip his head. The voice in his mind was back, the one that he’d tried to kill off years ago. The one that told him there was any kind of hope.  
Standing up rigidly, back forgotten, he began to wrap his knuckles making the tape far tighter than necessary. All Dean knew was that he wanted to beat the shit out of a nameless piece of meat. 

His opponent was more than perfect; a sad sack of shit, or so Dean thought, large and stout with awfully done tattoos covering his vein-covered skin. Dean never acknowledged his opponent, there was no “let’s have a nice fight” or “good luck”. That would make it harder when the body was lying under Dean’s hands in an officially dead state later on. They had a so-called ‘doctor on duty’ that came to “The Pit” each night to ‘clinically’ declare the death of those unfortunate enough to lose in Alastair’s little game. That’s all this was really, a game Alastair had made that somehow managed to attract all the other monsters in the area. 

As soon as the announcer declared the start of the first round, Dean’s attention was no longer on the world beyond him. This was who he was; this was who he was made to be. Well, who Alastair had taught him he was. It was like this every night he was in the ring, which was regretfully only three times a week. He was no longer Dean Winchester, the failure that had nothing left to his name but a few beer cans and a shit-covered past. He was the beast he wanted to be; the beast inside of himself that could love him more than he thought was possible. He could hear Alastair’s voice in his head as he tore at the man in front of him; skin slapping hard against skin. 

“Perfect.” Dean’s mental Alastair said.

“Beautiful, Dean. You’re everything I could ever want.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he watched blood and teeth fly out of his opponent’s mouth. 

“Everything I could ever need.”

Another punch, another tear into the man’s cheek, skin gathering under Dean’s nails.

“My perfect little monster.”

The man hit Dean perfectly in his right temple, the healing bruise from earlier causing the pain to be doubled. Dean staggered back as the agony spread, making his vision blur. Perfect. This was how he loved it; he could no longer make out the expression on the man’s face. It wasn’t human; it was more beastly than Dean was. 

“I carved you into a new animal, Dean.’

Dean forced the enemy down, using the weight of the lower half of his body to keep the beast pinned. With every punch the beast’s squeals grew louder, but they fell on careless ears. Dean wouldn’t stop, not until the beast was silent and he could feel the calmness of the animal’s body. 

“You’re gonna have to get creative to impress me.”

The want to please the image of Alastair’s being in his mind overwhelmed Dean, and he leaned down to bite deeply into the flesh of the man’s neck. His canines sunk straight through, tasting the thick and deep crimson.

“That’s my good boy.”

The beast was finally slaughtered, and Dean moved to stand on shaking legs. Like the night before, he lifted his arms about his head in pride at what he had accomplished for Alastair, at the simple pride of having killed something that God might have once found beautiful. The crowd of men cheered and screamed for him, roaring at the sincerity and purity of carnage at its most basic form. Alastair approached Dean from the front this time, knowing full well the headspace that Dean was in. Alastair called it Dean’s true from, the beautiful side of Dean. Reaching forward, Alastair placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders, shaking him slightly until Dean’s eyes met his. 

“Good boy.”

Dean grinned brightly, teeth shimmering with blood. His body was weak and jittery, but Alastair’s approval shot straight through his chest and warmed his tired soul. Alastair turned to the men and dismissed them as soon as the ‘doctor on duty’ declared the other man dead. There was no need for it though; anyone who looked at the body would be able to tell that there was no chance of life left in it. Dean had carved whatever life the man had out of him with knuckles, teeth, and nails.  
Alastair led him through the back entrance of the bar and up the secluded stairs past the employee bathroom. It was rare that Alastair allowed Dean into the bedroom they once used to share all that time ago. The familiar smell shot Dean out of his revere; now fully aware of the blood caking his skin and the aching agony that ran rampant through his body. 

“Dean.” 

Alastair’s voice was needy and erotic, his breathe hot and heavy against Dean’s ear. He could do this, he could be still, be silent. Alastair’s lips met his in a bloody and fierce kiss, the taste of the man he’d killed ever present between them. This seemed to only further stir the fire within Alastair, the man’s hands traveling across Dean’s beaten back. His was black and blue and crimson, a perfect mix of Alastair’s favorite colors. Letting go of Dean’s lips so that the man didn’t pass out, Alastair pushed Dean back on the bed, grinning at the screech Dean released as his back met the rough fabric of the comforter. Dean panted in pain as Alastair laid atop him, moving to pull hastily at what was left of Dean’s pants. Dean was too far gone to notice that he’d had a hard on since the fight had ended. Alastair’s lips once again met his and together they fell into a grinding rhythm, the man’s clothes having been discarded in the sexual rush. 

“You’re beautiful like this.”

Dean did his best to ignore the pang in his heart at the added words, “like this.” Alastair took no time in preparing him, simply using some of the blood off of Dean’s soaking back to slick himself up. The next few seconds were simple really, a series of hot breath on Dean’s chest as Alastair aligned himself. It was what came after that always had Dean wishing he could escape. His body though, never let him. In that moment all he could think about was blue eyes, blue eyes that promised him more than this. Eyes that said, “I know you.” Eyes that spoke to the pieces of his soul that wished to be once again clean. They were eyes that Dean didn’t believe he would see again, and as the scream rushed out of his lips, they were eyes that grew dark and cold until they were nothing more than black slits in the darkness. Darkness that Dean knew as maroon colored unconsciousness and the aftertaste of copper and sin.


	3. Saving What You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel returns to the bar only to find that Dean is not working. Alastair and Castiel meet, and with some swift lying, Castiel learns all too much about the realities that Dean is facing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I apologize that this chapter is several days late. I've had so many tests this past week and have been extremely busy with various plans so my muse ran away for a few days. This also mean that the next chapter will be up next Thursday/Friday, unless my muse strikes me beforehand. I feel like this chapter is slightly rushed, but I did my best to keep it lengthy so that your waiting has been rewarded. Thank you all so much for reading and supporting this story, and I hope you all enjoy.  
> Good day to you all~!

Castiel sat before his easel that night, eyes intent on the operation at hand. For some reason, he couldn’t get the other man out of his head. Closing his eyes for a moment, he visualized him, tracing the freckles across the man’s cheeks and the vibrant emerald of his eyes. “Dean…” He murmured, opening his eyes to stare directly into those exact irises once more. However, no matter how much he tried, his painting could not justify the beauty of the man himself. 

“Jesus Christ that’s a pretty face, the kind you’d find on someone I could save…” 

His i-pod sang from the doc, Brand New echoing around the large and empty room he sat in. His went back to getting out his acrylics, thinking over what he’d learned that day. Dean… He knew well enough that the man had lied about the severity of his injuries, and Castiel also knew that the bruise was not the only injury Dean had been laughing off. Learning back, he peered at the man in the painting, adding tinges of dark blue off to the side of Dean’s right temple. Castiel felt a tug in his chest, a sincerity to discover just who Dean was. 

“Well Jesus Christ I’m alone again, so what did you do those three days you were dead? ‘Cause this problem’s gonna last more than the weekend.” 

Castiel blinked, rubbing at his face with paint-stained hands. “Dean…I’m going to save you…” He whispered and his vow carried around the room like the music rushing out from the stereo. He would take care of this man, this individual who it seemed he’d found by some random twist of fate. Maybe this is what Gabriel had always told him? Something Gabriel called…sex at first sight? No, that wasn’t right. Love at first sight, right? Yes, this felt to Castiel like love at first sight. He only hoped that the other man might feel the same way. But whom was he kidding? Dean was a man of rugged intention and beautiful movement, and Castiel was…Castiel was…

Standing up abruptly, Castiel backed away from the painting and tilted his head to the right. It was perfect from any normal critique’s standard, but to Castiel there was still something missing. Maybe seeing Dean again would remind him of what he was missing? Rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks his back had developed in the endless hours of sitting, he turned off his stereo and shuffled out of the room. He frowned at the messy positioning of his covers, but got into bed anyway. He’d have plenty of time to kill in the morning before going to ‘Hell’s Gate’ anyway. 

That morning, Castiel woke up to the blaring and irritating sound of his five-dollar alarm clock. Reaching over to swat at it, he was distressed when it cracked and broke under the weight of his hand.  
Yes, being an artist was going to be a more difficult career choice.  
After all, all the money he had made from his previous jobs had gone into the apartment and partial savings. Struggling to get up and realizing he’d overslept Castiel headed to the bathroom, jumping into the shower. He spent the rest of the day lazily adding finishing touches to his paintings and taking random food breaks whenever hunger stroked at his toned stomach. 

‘Finally’, Castiel thought, ‘It’s six.’ Heading down toward the bar that was thankfully within walking distance, Castiel was un-amused to see that Dean was not the one behind the counter. This must have been the ‘partner’ Dean had been talking about. Instantly he felt the pain in his chest as he took his seat at the bar, rubbing at the back of his neck. After nonchalantly ordering his poison for the evening and receiving a strange gaze from the man before him, he decided to be as abrupt as he could be. 

“Where is Dean?”

“How do you know Dean?” The hostility in the man’ voice was enough to send Castiel reeling. 

“I’m a regular.” Castiel decided that would be his best bet at the moment. 

That seemed to put Alastair at ease for the moment, tilting his head to the left as he continued wiping off the remaining residue. Castiel peered down at Alastair’s hands as the man worked, noting that they too were as scarred as Dean’s. His allowed his eyes to follow the tan lengths of Alastair’s arms seeing the rough patches of interrupted skin. 

“So, as for my question, where is Dean?” 

“He isn’t feeling well.” Alastair offered, and Castiel’s eyes shifted.

“Ah, is it his injuries?” Castiel noted the change in the man that followed.

With wide eyes that narrowed dangerously, Alastair leaned forward until his face was inches from Castiel’s. 

“The hell do you mean, injuries?” 

“He was in a fight, was he not?” Castiel knew that this was his only chance to broach what he thought might have been occurring and not have this man break him into pieces with his bare hands. 

“Ah.” Alastair murmured, leaning back and out of Castiel’s space. (Which Castiel was extremely grateful for.) “So you know of Dean’s activities?” 

“Of course.” Castiel said with a half smile, but having no actual idea of what exactly that entailed. His thought it over for a minute before his smile grew, “Actually, I came here to check up on him. You see, I’m a well trained (sort of) doctor and I specialize in injuries related to this sort of ‘activity’.” Castiel winked, and he hoped to the God he’d always prayed to that Alastair believed he was ‘playing’ secretive. 

“Is that so?” Alastair hummed, eying the man over the counter.

“Alastair. I’m the owner of Hell’s Gate, and also Dean’s ‘partner’.” The lack of ‘co’ before ‘owner’ did not go unnoticed to Castiel. Didn’t Dean say he owned this place alongside this man?

“Cast…I’m Cas.” Castiel met the man’s hand, once again receiving the odd chill that came with the rubbing of scars against his skin. 

“Well, ‘Cas’.” Alastair said simply, rotating his hand in a ‘come here’ action as he moved out from behind the bar and started heading to a door in the corner of the bar. Castiel followed, simply because he hoped wherever Alastair was taking him would lead him to the man he desperately wanted to see. 

“If you are ever interested…” Alastair murmured thoughtlessly as he opened the door, allowing Castiel to follow him to a flight of stairs, the door closing ominously behind him. “Dean and I would love to have you join ‘The Pit’. A man like you…” Alastair’s eyes roamed over his body, and Castiel did his best not to turn and vomit right then and there. “Would do well, I assume, with extra training of course. You know how it all works anyway.” 

“Of course.” Castiel remarked, trying to seem at ease with the lies he was telling. So far, he’d gathered that there was much to be called illegal going on here, and that all of it started with this man; Alastair. ‘The Pit’, Cas concluded, must have been a fighting arena of some sort where Dean was receiving these ‘injuries’. Something told Castiel that the arena was not the only reason for Dean’s ‘unwell’ status. 

Finally, the stairs ended at yet again another door, and Alastair quickly threw it open before he entered. Castiel stood there for a moment, a bit spooked at the noise the door had made when it connected with the wall behind it. He swore that if he looked behind the large mass of wood there would be a hole in the plaster. 

Castiel took a deep heaving breath as he stepped into the large room, eyes roaming the simple bloodstains on the hardwood floor. If one was not looking for it, one would assume it was just the wood’s coloring. He almost stepped back out of the room as his eyes landed on the large bed in the middle of the floor. Alastair’s breath hitched at the surprise across Castiel’s face and he did his best to bury it before Alastair could say a word. Lying on top of blood stained sheets was a completely naked Dean, aside from the makeshift bandages that were wrapped loosely around the entirety of his back. With Dean on his stomach it was easy to see just how far down the damage went, small bloodstains trailing the sheets near his spread legs. While Castiel had been painting this beautiful man, so much had happened that it burned a hole in Castiel’s already aching heart. 

Stepping towards the bed, Castiel could easily see the bandages were still thickly coated in blood, obviously not sterilized in the least bit. He spared at glance at Alastair who was looking at him with predatory eyes. ‘Yes’, Castiel thought bitterly, ‘Another predator going near your prey.’ With a hefty sigh Castiel slowly reached over and began peeling off the bandages, Dean fully unconscious from the lack of blood, or Castiel would assume was the issue. As Dean’s tan skin became more visible by the second, Castiel’s blood began to boil through his already tight veins. Whip marks; long thin lines, bloody and raised. Some were open, the mutilated flesh overly exposed to the elements around it. The doctor within Castiel was screaming to get this man to the hospital, to break down and call the ambulance that he used to work on just to make sure that he’d survive the week. Among the fresh wounds were old raised scars, some more prominent than others, but all promising a long life of constant abuse. From fighting in this so called ‘Pit’ or from his own ‘partner’, Castiel couldn’t be sure. 

“How many?” Castiel’s voice was low, trying to keep the edge off to avoid suspicion. 

“Fights, you mean?” Alastair asked offhandedly, his smug posture throwing Castiel off.

Alastair paused for a moment and hummed, taking Castiel’s silence as an affirmative. 

“Only two so far this week. Pathetic to get beaten this badly, I know. I thought I trained him better than that.” 

The word ‘trained’ resonated in Castiel something sickening, and he shook himself to snap out of it. Finally, all the bandages had been removed, and Castiel allowed himself to glance down towards Dean’s thighs. Blood was caked around his lower back, the trail leading down to what Castiel refused to acknowledge at that point and time. The monster hadn’t even tried to clean up his mess. The thought was baffling. Turning towards the man Castiel knew committed such an action, his heart beat wildly in his chest. Alastair’s curious eyes hardened as he stared back at Castiel as if daring him to take action. However, instead of a backhanded comment or an initiating yell of the truth Castiel so desperately wanted to say, he simply rolled his shoulders.

“I’m going to need all the medical supplies you have in this building. I have a few bandages in my bag, but that will obviously not be enough.” 

Alastair simply nodded, eyes glassy and determined as he headed out of the room. It was obvious to Castiel that the only reason Alastair had left him alone in the room with Dean was because Castiel couldn’t do much more to Dean than Alastair had already done. Reaching his hand up to Dean’s head, he ran his fingers gently through the man’s short hair. “Dean…” He whispered, allowing his hand to pass over his neck as he sighed heavily. Castiel hadn’t even seen the front of the man, and that alone worried him more than the current condition of the man’s back. What could he possibly do for Dean now? Report it? Who would believe him? It seemed evident to Castiel that if the police ever got involved Alastair would know how to deal with them smoothly and swiftly. What if Dean didn’t even want to get out of here? What if Dean enjoyed ‘fighting’? What if Dean supported this type of lifestyle?

Alastair returned with random ‘medical’ kits and simple objects and with a shrug Castiel got to work. The man’s back alone had taken over a half an hour to treat properly, the occasional wound desperately needing stitches. Alastair had gone to tend to the bar; leaving Castiel alone with the unconscious body of the man he couldn’t stop thinking about. He couldn’t remember the last time something had stuck in his mind like this. Lifting Dean’s body, Castiel’s hands traced his chest, following every bruise and nail mark. Teeth too actually, Castiel noted, the impressions resting on Dean’s left hip. Wrapping bandages around the man’s mid section, Castiel was content to see that the bleeding was beginning to come to a complete halt. From the front Castiel was able to see the faint bruised outline of hands around Dean’s neck and as carefully as he could he rested his hands over them. With what pride did the man take in abolishing Dean in this way? What right did the man have to lay waste to such a beautiful human being?

Eyes fluttered open at that moment, searching as their vision returned, albeit hazy. Irises met in a flurry of light and color, blue and green crashing like the tidal wave within Castiel’s chest. Dean smiled for a moment, feeling the familiar pressure on his neck. This was Alastair, Dean knew that, but for that brief second of feeling he was able to see the beautiful blue-eyed man.

“Jesus Christ I’m not scared to die, I’m a little bit scared of what comes after…” 

“Angel…” Dean whispered with his rough and worn out voice and that smile broke into a grin for a fleeting second. Castiel fought to say something, fought to move his hands away, to plead to Dean that he was there, but it was too late. Dean had already returned to unconsciousness, and Castiel was left alone to contemplate the significance of something so small. He seemed to be doing a lot of that recently. 

Doing his best not to undermine Dean in the process, Castiel began to examine the rest of the man’s body. He allowed himself to reach back, carefully parting those circular mounds of flesh to examine the rest of the damage. He’d done this several times before during rape tests at the hospital, but with Dean it was as though he was seeing the brutality for the first time. He’d put the gloves back on before doing so, knowing full well that something as simple as the side of a fingernail could further the pain caused by such damage. The man’s hole was puffy and red, obviously angered by the blood that had dried around it, and as Castiel moved his finger to it he could already guess at the tear right behind the surface. He knew they had a lack of the medical supplies necessary to treat such an issue, so after sterilizing the area, Castiel left it alone. 

Alastair had returned, thankfully a few moments after Castiel was done and had prepared himself to face the man he now hated. Hate was a strong word for Castiel, one he’d never favored over dislike, but it seemed to fit the situation accurately. 

“He will be fine. Though, he lost extreme amounts of blood and will need extended bed rest. I expect you to change those bandages, and I’ve laid out all of the items you will need to take care of him for the next week.” Castiel stated, voice completely devoid of emotion. He was in, as Gabriel always called it, ‘doctor mode’.

Alastair scoffed, his attitude changing from playful to irate within seconds.  
“He has a match tonight.”

Castiel was unable to hold back the fury in his eyes, his chest beginning to sweat with repressed emotions.

“He will not be able to ‘perform’,” Castiel held up air quotes with a sarcastic voice, “until next week.”

Alastair’s whole body hardened, realizing his mistake in allowing Castiel anywhere near Dean. For all he knew, this ‘doctor’ could have been one of Dean’s old ‘fuckmates’. Maybe the man had never even stepped in a ring? His own thoughts of self-hatred ran rampant, and he snapped his head towards Castiel.  
“He’s my partner, mine to do what I want with.” He said simply, trying to reign in his anger. The last thing he needed were cops showing up when the man’s relatives noticed he was gone. “Get out.” There was a slight slither to his words, and Castiel realized the significance to him on a spiritual level. The snake had captured Dean, and it was his job to drag the man back into the light. 

Castiel glanced back at Dean’s form one last time before heading out the doorway and down the steps to the main floor of the bar. From there, he rushed through those huge doors that he’d only peered through the day before, refusing to look back to see if Alastair had tailed him out. He needed to get home. He needed to find something to sooth this feeling of dread. He needed. The thought made Castiel freeze. How long had it been since he had ‘needed’ anything? Shaking it off, he darted towards his apartment, trench coat left forgotten on the floor of Alastair’s room. 

Back at the bar, Dean was finally beginning to come to. With hazy eyes he shifted his pained body to the side, peering at the wall for a simple vision of clarity. Fingers were running through his hair calmly, and Dean closed his eyes once more, imagining Castiel was once again there with him. “Dean…” The whisper of reality came too quickly to him, and Dean was fully conscious within a matter of seconds. Alastair rested on the bed beside him, his fingers carding through Dean’s hair, and Dean held back the flinch he’d wanted to so badly act on. Slowly moving to sit up, Alastair aiding him, Dean looked down at his body in amazement. How long had it been had he been out? How long had it been since Alastair had treated him this gently? 

“You’ve been out all day…” Alastair whispered to him, cradling Dean’s body against his as he moved so that Dean’s pained back rested on his chest. 

“I was so worried.” Allowing himself to take in Alastair’s words, Dean’s body relaxed as it rested against the older man’s. 

“You…did all this?” Dean asked, his voice rough as he carefully moved his arms in a swaying motion over his bandages. 

“Of course. You were in so much pain, and after all…” He leaned forward so that his lips were resting beside Dean’s ear.

“I love you.” 

Sparks shot through Dean’s chest, his heart having ached for those words to mean something to him in a long time. For once they weren't followed by ‘like this’, for once they weren't tainted in playful malice. This was the Alastair he fell in love with all those years ago, the calm and loving man he’d missed ever since. He dozed off then, completely unaware of the intentions the man behind him held. Completely unaware of the simple clue of a discarded trench coat only a foot from where he laid.

Castiel did not sleep that evening, his mind buzzing around as though a hive of bees. With shaking hands he’d begun painting the second he stepped into his empty apartment. With every finished wound on Dean’s body, his canvas came to life, and he had to bite his lip to keep the emotion from spilling out. The reds came together to trace whip marks that Castiel prayed he’d never see again. It was similar to the picture he’d seen in his medical books, ‘Wound Man’, a body broken beyond repair. How was he to completely repair it?

“Do I divide and fall apart? ‘Cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark. And this ship went down in sight of land…” 

The song echoed around him once again, pulling him further within himself till the tears began to spill down his cheeks. “Damn it, Dean!” He screeched, his shaking hand shifting the paintbrush, the red streaks mixing in with thoughts of pained green eyes. “Damn it!” 

Castiel fell asleep at the easel that night, body curled up on the uncomfortable chair he’d gotten for himself halfway through his fits of panic and cruelty to his own psyche. Gabriel had not called, no one had stopped by, and Castiel’s world was impossibly silent. But that is how it had always been, and it allowed his mind to roam freely like that of God.

“He’s my partner,” Alastair had said, “mine to do what I want with.”

And that was the moment that Castiel realized he would save what was left of Dean, the broken and coerced man. 

He would grip him tight and raise him from perdition.


	4. It's Different Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week has passed since Castiel last step foot into Hell's Gate and he's worried that Alastair is not treating Dean as he requested. However, Dean is closer to recovery than ever when Alastair strikes up conversation of a difficult fight in the pit. Essentially, shit goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I am SO sorry for the wait. This was supposed to be up about two weeks ago, but due to finals and just schooling in general I was unable to finish writing it. Thankfully, I had a few hours of free time last night, so I stayed up writing this for you lovelies. A lot of stuff goes down in this chapter, so be aware that it's a small emotional roller coaster. (I was unable to proof-read this, so if there are many mistakes I apologize. I will eventually take it down and proof it myself before re-publishing it.) Anyway, hope you guys enjoy, and the next chapter will be up whenever I can find the time between finals. You're comments and kudos keep my muse alive, so I thank you greatly for them! (Plus I always squee when I see them.)

Dean was once again unsettled at the simple gift of being able to lie in the bed he’d sought out for so long. Some mornings he’d wake up to find Alastair beside him, Dean’s head propped up on the other man’s shoulder. Other mornings he’d awake to an empty bed, and as Dean searched, an empty home. It had been seven days since the breakthrough moment they’d had together, and there had been no fighting. There were no screaming matches or fists connecting with bruised flesh during late night activities. This was the life he had dreamed of, and he knew that in the event of such a thing, it would simply never last. This morning though, had a bitter and empty feeling that filled the blank room with a harsh flutter of darkness. Alastair was not beside him when he awoke, the bed empty and cold like the morning air that drifted in through the cracked window.  
Slowly moving to get up, Dean was weary of his almost completely healed wounds, wondering for a brief moment what it would be like to not worry for them at all. Shrugging the thoughts off of his toned shoulders, he wandered down the stairs to the empty bar. Alastair stood across the room, body leaned over the bar, but something about his posture threw Dean off greatly. 

“Alastair…?” Dean said softly, feeling a need to cover his naked body at the rigid way the other man shifted at the sound of his name.

“Dean.” Alastair murmured and turned to face him. Within a few seconds Dean’s body was wrapped tightly in Alastair’s rough arms, a hand on the back of his head as he was cradled against the other man. 

“We have a huge fight tonight.” Alastair murmured in his ear with a slight grin.  
“Man offered a huge sum of money to see someone put down. Said he figured you’d be perfect for the job.” 

Dean’s body froze, his eyes attempting to focus on the bar stools that still needed to be taken down. No. No. This was…this…. He knew it was all to good to be true.

“Dean?” Alastair pushed Dean away from him, but his fingers remained clenched around Dean’s shoulders. Noticing the man’s frozen state, he shook the man harshly, eyes searching his face.  
“What’s the matter with you?” He snapped, shaking Dean even more ferociously. 

“I don’t…I don’t want to.” Dean risked, this past week building up a courage in him that previously would have been non-existent. As always, he waited for the blow to come, and as always, it did; a punch straight across the jaw that sent Dean staggering back. With furious eyes, Alastair moved to hit him again, this time sending him onto the wooden floor. 

“You don’t want to!?” Alastair yelled, the man’s eyes glowing with mix of emotions Dean knew well. Disappointment. Anger. Irritation. Hatred.  
“After all the fucking things I’ve done for you, you say ‘I don’t want to’? Has it ever occurred to you that this isn’t about what you want!? This is about what’s best for us!” Alastair’s voice was rough and it was obvious to Dean that no matter what he said in that moment, it would never be good enough to quell Alastair’s anger. Where was the fear when you knew that regardless of your own actions the situation would never change? 

“You mean what’s best for you?” Dean grunted out, risking a weary glance at Alastair’s heated face from where he lay on the floor. His jaw ached greatly, but he refused to reach up and touch it, keeping his arms by his sides in a display of submission. 

As Dean had expected, his ribs began to ache and burn under the pressure of Alastair’s timed kicks that came like the beating of water against oars. Dean lay there and took it as he always did, closing his eyes and picturing the flickering images of crystal blue. Blue like the ocean, blue like the lake he used to fish at as a child. 'Castiel', Dean thought for the first full time that week, 'Castiel'. Images of the man surfaced in an attempt to block out the pain, but the blue of the man's eyes was slowly fading to black. Unconsciousness felt closer with every wonderful burst of agony and it was melodic; a gentle sleep that'd last him the year: his eternity. 

However, Dean’s wish to fade out quickly ended as he heard footsteps retreat up the stairs, leaving Dean on the ground and still painfully conscious. Opening his eyes he attempted to stand, remaining there for a few more moments to asses the condition of his ribs. Nothing broken, but definitely bruised. Using the counter of the bar, he pulled himself up, peering around the room. Glancing back at where he’d been laying, he noticed the small flecks of blood and sighed as he got out a rag to wash it up with. Alastair would be even more irritable if he left blood to dry on the floor. That was something that Alastair enjoyed in the bedroom, but never in the bar. As he wiped up the mess in a crippled state, Dean concluded that he would fight that evening. Alastair had left him with no choice in retrospect, and this was all he could do to mend this issue. After all, Alastair was only thinking of what was best for them. Bile rose up in his throat, a reaction to a few well placed foot stomps to his stomach. Choking it down, he sighed heavily, rubbing at the abused skin. 

“Alastair.” Dean called up the steps after he was finished cleaning the floor. His voice was raspy, and he wrapped one arm around his ribs as though it would help keep them all together. 

“I’ll fight tonight..for you…I’m so sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean it, I’ll be good-“  
Dean was interrupted as Alastair crept down the steps, reaching out to grip Dean’s jaw tightly. 

“Yes, you will.” Alastair simply stated, moving to capture Dean’s plump lips in his.  
The kiss started out rough, but became more passionate, Alastair taking the time to playfully bite a Dean’s bottom lip. A hand traced up the side of Dean’s face, moving to tangle in his hair, and Dean couldn’t help the contented sigh that raced from his mouth. Alastair’s other hand traced the newly forming bruises on Dean’s face, seeking out the perfectly freckled skin and rubbing at the new coloring gently. The kiss lasted longer than Dean ever believed it would, Alastair pulling back slowly as he caught his breath. Leaning forward, Alastair rested his forehead against Dean’s, closing his eyes for a moment as their noses gently brushed. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Alastair ran his fingers down Dean’s toned back to his bare bottom, cupping his cheeks with a playful grin. 

“Come upstairs.” He whispered lightly in Dean’s ear, licking along his lobe as he headed up the steps. Dean stood there for a minute longer, eyes tracing the narrow staircase. There was a time when Dean looked up those stairs with longing, loving every moment he could capture from the ‘love of his life’. The paint on the sidewalls was now chipped, the faint green color that they’d picked out together now replaced by the old owner’s chipper yellow. In his oblivious stupor, memories surfaced, ones that Dean would rather leave back in the sincere innocence-tethered past. 

_Alastair wrapped his arms gently over Dean’s shoulders, resting his chin atop the shorter man’s head. Dean, covered in paint, grinned cheerfully. “How do you like it?” Alastair laughed, “Rough.” Dean reached up to smack Alastair with a still-drying hand, and the man just chuckled more heartily. “It looks great.” Dean beamed at him, reaching out to playfully hit him on the shoulder. “That’s all you have to say?” Dean’s voice was sarcastic, but Alastair’s smile faltered a little, believing he’d upset the other. “It’s a perfect color, Dean. It reminds me of your eyes.” Dean grinned and tried to hide the way Alastair’s words made him feel. “Whatever, don’t you have work to do?” With a soft smile Alastair nodded, leaning over to kiss him softly on the lips before heading out once more._

“Dean?” He snapped out of his revere, listening to the underlying tone of impatience in that voice he used to crave. 

“I’m coming.” He called back, stepping up one stair at a time, his ribs aching with every light movement. 

The rest of the day was spent with Dean downstairs prepping for what Alastair called, ‘the fight of his life’. He’d wrapped his knuckles several times, taking swings at the large punching bag. By the time he was done working up a sweat the men had already started to gather, and Dean pretended not to be nervous. ‘Come on,’ he thought, ‘it’s only been seven fucking days. You can do this. You will do this.’ 

As always, Alastair dropped by, peering through the doorway with a sharp grin. When he approached, Dean took a step back, unable to hide the slight shake of his body. This seemed to amuse the man more, his eyes seeking out an answer in Dean’s. 

“I expect no less than perfection tonight, Dean.” Alastair said, but there was a bite in his tone, something that commanded more than simply a stated intent. 

“I assume you can give me that?” 

“Yes.” Dean said simply, eyes refusing to meet Alastair’s. 

Alastair took a step forward, but before anything could happen the announcer for the evening was calling Dean to the ‘Pit’. 

“Don’t break a leg.” Alastair said with a smirk, not leaving until he’d tugged roughly on Dean’s hair, pulling him along behind him. Dean allowed himself to be dragged this way knowing that it was the things that Alastair did that antagonized the beast in him. However, he was worried as to where the beast was. The animal was as silent as the cool evening outside of the wide walls that surrounded him. 

As Dean spaced out a new man stepped into the ring, eyes flaring with the same intensity his had the week before. The man was slightly taller than Dean with a thick muscular build. In a simple battle of weight, Dean knew the other man would instantly win. This however, was not about weight. This was about cunning, about skill, about the exact precision with which a butcher uses when he slaughters his meat. The smell of the pit brought him into his head space, the animal stirring under his skin. It was as though a switch went off in his brain, leaving Dean a bystander to the scene that was about to unfold.

The announcer claimed that moment as the start of this small game the two bodies in the center of the ring would be playing. In Dean’s mind, he could hear Alastair whisper wonders, over and over. 

“You’re going to have to get creative to impress me.”  


Somewhere inside of the beast its heart ached, wanting to do exactly as Alastair wanted. As he moved to do just that, a blow had landed on his cheek, forcing him away from the body he’d been planning on tearing into. Then suddenly, one moment after the other, Dean found himself pinned on the ground while the man continuously hit him across the jaw. Using Dean’s confusion, the man shifted his punches, reigning crimson fire across his head. Grabbing a handful of Dean’s hair, he hit his head against the rough ground until he saw stars. For a moment, Dean smiled, praying for it all to be over. ‘Blunt force trauma’, he thought, ‘what a way for me to go…’ He heard shuffling around him, knowing it was only from the man’s own breathing, but his mind tried to take him back. Back to the place he’d been living in every time his eyes met the blackness of his skull.  


 **“Dean!”** That was it, that was all it took. The ringing sound within Dean’s ears combined with the tone of Alastair’s uneasy voice shattered any piece of control left within him. Kicking the man off of him Dean tackled his enemy to the ground, sinking nails into the flesh of the man’s neck. Using the new position as an advantage, Dean rested his body weight on the man’s torso, attempting to keep the bigger man down beneath him. His mind raced as the man began to struggle, Dean quickly realizing that he was at a greater disadvantage overall. Everything was a blur of color and sound, frozen yet right before him, present yet very surreal. In that moment he could feel the ache in his bones, the shattered edges of his brain, the agony within his dislocated jaw.

“That’s it.” The Alastair of his mind whispered, “Good boy.”

**‘Good boy’.**

Dean let go. He let it all go. With a ferocity that was unknown to the human side of his brain, the man before him was obliterated with everything Dean had available to him. It was as though his fists were now hammers, his teeth now razors. Blood seeped through the skin the beast before him was wearing, and with every small puddle that reached out beneath the body, Dean’s pleasure grew. Even long after the man had stopped struggling, Dean had continued his ‘play’. This was no longer man versus man, this was predator versus prey, and Dean was long from being finished. The crowd had stopped cheering, their eyes wide and glazed over as they watched humanity disappear before them. It was disturbingly intimate, and would have been almost horrifying for Dean, if he had been present.

Blood…it was there now. It was in the way Dean stood when he finally finished, body aching and trembling. It was in the way his mouth tasted, staining white a deep crimson. It was in the way his wounds seeped, drifting down his marred skin. It was in the way the fight had ended, the pool laying beneath the body before him. He glanced down at his nails, seeing the build up of shredded skin beneath them. The man’s chest was open before him, a beautiful bouquet of ribbed flowers. Each shattered bone creating thorns on the rose of the man’s heart. He had done this.

He **craved** this.

In the darkness that rushed over him then like a temperate storm, Dean found himself consumed in the tragic aftertaste of a life that could have ended so differently. He hated the body that lay there with eyes that remained open, a life that could have easily taken his own. Dean hated that body, but even more than that, he hated the soul. Though in the end, the thing he hated the most, was the beast inside of him. This was its world, and Alastair had carved him into its ghastly dwelling.  
Alastair had set him free.

Dean could feel skin moving against his own and he peered to the side watching Alastair’s clean hand turn red as the man grabbed his arm. Dean instantly recoiled, crouching down as he prepared to strike down a potential threat. Alastair had expected this and swiftly moved behind Dean, grabbing the back of his neck and holding him down towards the ground. It was then that Dean realized who this man was, and his position above him. ‘Master.’ It was a simple thought, a thought that would occur in the mind of a beast. His mind.

“You almost **lost** , Dean.” He whispered, and Dean closed his eyes, as the grip on his neck grew tighter. It was then that Alastair dragged Dean towards the body, keeping the man’s head down towards the ground.

“You almost **lost**.” He repeated, stopping so that Dean could see the life he had taken. Alastair however, was far from done. Shoving Dean’s head lower, he forced the man’s face into the open skin, allowing the body’s chest to rub against Dean’s bruised face and semi-fractured jaw.

“You would have been **useless**.” He bent down to whisper in Dean’s ear, “You would have been **worthless** , but you are already, aren’t you?” He smirked, bringing Dean’s face up, pulling him towards him then. Alastair held his face inches away from his own, peering into Dean’s wounded and cloudy green eyes.

“You were **worthless** when I found you, and you’re **worthless** now.”

The beast felt like screaming, all of the weight crashing down on Dean’s bruised shoulders, but the pain made him stay silent. Alastair hated himself for saying such words, but there was a burning inside of him that he was unable to contain. Dean was special, Dean was his, but there was a need within him to destroy what was left of this man. Dean was broken, but he wasn’t shattered. That was Alastair’s job.  
Alastair pulled Dean up by his throat, and it was then that Dean realized all of the audience had disappeared. How much time had passed between his kill and this moment? Dean found himself hitting the side of the arena, back burning at the force with which Alastair had thrown him against it.

“You’re **pathetic**. A beast that I had to make, you couldn’t even do it on your own. And why? Because you thought I loved you.”

Alastair’s world was breaking, facing the monster he had created. It wasn’t the monster that had ruined Alastair’s vision; it had been the weakness within Dean at seeing his true potential. Why didn’t Dean appreciate it? Why didn’t Dean realize that if he lost, Alastair would be left with nothing?

On the other side of town, Castiel by a twist of fate decided to go the long way home after his long day of meetings at the local art studio. They’d offered him an area to display his artwork and he’d gotten various offers from art collectors that seemed to appreciate the ‘disturbing’ aura of his medical paintings. Stopping for a moment when he realized he was standing in front of “Hell’s Gate”, he peered through the glass door and found only disappointment, as had been his usual reaction for the past week as the bar had been presently closed. He then crossed the distance from sidewalk to sidewalk, peering down the alley to his left. He would have kept moving if it weren’t for the heavy breathing that was audible even where he stood at the rickety entrance. Tilting his head in minor confusion, he began to slowly and carefully slink down the alleyway. (This was not a wise action, which Castiel regarded later as a ‘intuitive feeling’.) Sudden movement from the right made him jump back, arms coming up to instinctively guard him from any harm. (Something he’d learned in defense classes with Gabriel.) Slowly though, as the shape behind the motion began to take on a truer form, Castiel’s arms slackened weakly at his sides. 

Dean.

There, off beside the large trash bins that stood enormous in comparison to the man that seemed so fragile in that moment, was Dean. Body bloodier than any Cas had ever seen, he seemed to try and rise, breath heavy and greatly labored. The man whimpered when he was able to finally get to his feet, arms wrapped around himself, fingernails scratching at his already copper coated forearms. As Castiel stepped closer, he reached for the man, hoping to convey his presence to Dean’s obviously muddled mind. He looked like discarded rubble, left there waiting for someone or something to take him far away, maybe till the end of his existence or maybe just for the night, but as Dean tilted his head to the side at Castiel’s action there was something in the man’s eyes that hit a spark in him. Something that drove to the core of his existence at max speed and decided to make a left turn through a valve in his heart he didn’t even know he had.

He felt like a child again, peering at Dean with wide eyes. There was curiosity there, fear, and a ravaging sense of the need to aid. Once again in ‘doctor mode’, Castiel analyzed what he could see of the man’s body in the barely lit alley. The man’s chest was riddled with small wounds, but to Castiel’s relief, the wounds of the previous week were mostly healed. His face though was a whole other story, his jaw slightly angled in an unnatural way. His cheeks were wide and puffy as well as greatly bruised with a sickeningly dark blue. The man’s pants were torn in various places, knees burned and covered in cuts, most likely from being rubbed against a rough surface for far too long. The overall combination of wounds brought Castiel back to the image of Alastair, of the ‘fighting’ that Alastair had been so greatly proud of. 

“Dean…” He called softly, hoping that his voice would somehow trigger the man back into this reality. Dean’s gaze shifted to him, the man panting loudly at the effort he was making to simply stand in Castiel’s presence. 

Dean didn’t know who's reality he was in; whether this was his mind or the mind of a man slowly drifting to sleep on the open sea. Either would have the same type of forgetfulness, knowing there was something they were supposed to do, but being far too tired to accomplish the task. For the boatman it might have been forgetting that he was heading straight for the rocks at the edge of the ocean. For Dean, it might be the burning sensation of a life on fire that has long needed to be put out. Dean had thought that his end end was near and its sweet toxic sleep was greatly lulling. He fought it though, for those blue eyes he could barely make out in that dingy place. For those blue eyes that he now could see staring at him as he attempted to shake off the ever sweetly sounding song of unconsciousness.  
“Cas…” He whispered, eyes attempting to focus as his jaw remained slack, twisting the vowel and dragging it out.  
Castiel knew that this was God giving him a sign, the faded streetlight suddenly appearing much brighter on the man before him as he fretted over what to do. He leaned forward, hand grazing the bloodied man’s shoulder, and he gripped it tightly and reassuringly.

Dean Winchester would be saved, and Castiel knew he was the only one who could save him.


	5. A 'Good Night'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel manages to get Dean back to his apartment, but it's clear to him that the man isn't fully there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm so sorry this took so long!~ I had finals and whatnot this past couple of weeks, but I'm glad I was able to write this. This is an extremely emotional chapter filled with enough feels to power a light bulb on its own. Anyway, sorry that it's slightly short, I promise the next chapter will be much longer. Have a wonderful summer lovelies, I'll be back with the next chapter in a couple weeks. (I seriously need to start developing a schedule for updating this. :3)  
> I was unable to revise this completely, so I apologize greatly for any errors.  
> Also, as always, feel free to comment. I really enjoy hearing what you think of the story thus far. (:
> 
> Music Recommendations for this chapter:  
> Stay With Me - NO  
> When You Break - Bear's Den  
> Homage for the Suffering - Matthew Perryman Jones (Favorite One)

Getting Dean back to Castiel’s apartment had been a chore and a half, shuddering every time he heard Dean groan in pain. He’d supported Dean all the way, refusing to acknowledge the agonizing tightness building up in the muscles of his left side. As soon as they entered the door, and Castiel had to let go of Dean, he toppled down onto the floor of the entryway. Castiel locked the door behind him, weary of the man Dean knew well, and bent down at Dean’s side. With gentle hands he began to pull Dean up, but the man shook his head as he coughed loudly. Blood dripped out of his uneasy jaw and Castiel winced as it began to spread across the pale tiles of his entryway. 

“Dean…”

Castiel tried to lift him up once again, looping his arms under Dean’s until the man was leaning against the wall.  
“Come on, to the bathroom.” Castiel murmured, trying to keep his voice level as he pulled the bleeding man along with him. Getting Dean to sit on the toilet was the most difficult event Castiel had experienced thus far, the man refusing to move another inch once they reached the tall doorway. Now though, Castiel could see why. With every medical kit he had in his home, he began to set up a makeshift ER.  
“Now Dean…” He said gently, not wanting to startle the other man. “I’m going to go ahead and take your pants off now, alright?” He glanced up at Dean, curious to see if the man would acknowledge him. Dean simply closed his eyes; he breath still heavy and heaving as he leaned back against the toilets frame. Castiel used all the strength in his arms to lift Dean slightly so he could get the man’s torn jeans down his legs, making sure not to focus too much on Dean’s form in general.  
“There we go…” Castiel whispered to himself as he threw the bloody things in a pile off to the side of the mediocre bathroom.  
Instantly Castiel felt himself lose his bearings, eyes wide as he traced the wounds on Dean’s tan skin. It was inhumane. It all was: bloody, torn apart, wild and unforgiving. 

Shattered.  
Dean was shattered. 

Castiel doubted that he had the tools required to treat this. For he knew he had the medical supplies, but a soul…a soul was much harder to fix. Dean flinched and cried in agony as Castiel got to work, stitches lining the already scarred skin of his legs and chest; his left hand having been open as well. Castiel had managed to reset Dean’s jaw, quickly but not painlessly, and worked on stabilizing it. It was intimate, his fingers resting along the strong bones of Dean’s freckled cheeks. Castiel wished so badly that this could have been another time, a moment in the future perhaps, a reality in which Dean would push his lips gently against his.

A moment in which Dean was whole.  
A moment in which Castiel was whole.  
A moment in which the world was right by them. 

Dean’s dislocated shoulder had taken extra time, and Castiel honestly wished that he would never have to hear the sounds Dean made again. The moment-based agony already seared into Castiel’s mind. After Castiel finished with most of the wounds he began to soothingly run a warm washcloth over Dean’s bloody skin. He watched Dean’s face curiously as the man’s pained eyes slowly shut, his breathing beginning to even out. Dean was beautiful. Utterly and preciously so. Castiel though that he looked much like the green-eyed jaguar he’d seen at the big cat exhibit as a child. ‘Be careful, Castiel’. He could hear Gabriel’s voice in the back of his mind as he pressed his hands up against Dean’s chest; the glass. ‘Don’t antagonize him.’ With a hesitant sigh, Castiel continued, running the washcloth down Dean’s legs and admiring the scar-riddled skin. 

“I’m going to move you to a more comfortable place, okay Dean? First though, let’s get those off.” Castiel murmured, realizing the ultimately bloody and ripped state of the man’s tight gray boxers. Green eyes opened to glance at him, and Castiel’s breath hitched at the pleading look in those irises. “It’s okay Dean.” He whispered, “It’s okay, I’m not going to do anything.” He helped Dean up again, watching as the man held up his hand for him to stop. Dean pulled them down himself, and Castiel looked away. He just wanted to make sure that all the blood was off of the man in front of him to the best of his ability. From there, Castiel swung his arm around Dean, helping the man into the next room. There was Castiel’s studiously decorated bedroom, his simplistic large bed resting right in the middle. Dean looked at him worriedly, but Castiel simply helped him to the bed, flicking on the lamp that rested atop the bedside table  
“You can sleep here tonight.” Castiel said, his voice rough and slightly uneasy.

Dean nodded, laying back on the bed in his fully naked glory. Castiel briefly pondered Dean’s comfortable attitude with being naked and wounded, and his heart fell a little more in his chest. Castiel looked away, moving instead to the window and slowly opening it to allow in fresh air. He thought the outside noise might kill the deafening silence within the room. He began to hear whimpers from behind him, the ominous sound of labored breathing building up once again. Castiel closed his eyes tightly, saying a silent prayer to the God he hoped was above. He took a few steps back till his legs reached the bed, his back still to it. He was mentally preparing himself for the worst. 

When Castiel turned around, Dean was shaking fiercely; his newly treated wounds appearing as though fire across his skin as he rubbed at them. “What am I?” He growled out, eyes dark and unstable as he now sat up in the bed. He moved towards Castiel, body still trembling like the ripples Castiel had followed with his eyes many a time on his trips to the lake. “What did you make me into?” This time, his voice had escalated into a yell, cracking as it reached the top of its range. Castiel briefly wondered what his neighbors would think, but tuned it out for the moment. The old couple next door was slightly def, not nearly as important as Dean was. “I can’t go back to hell…” He stuttered, hand reaching up to clutch the side of his face, shielding his left eye. “I can’t…” Suddenly Dean’s hands were gripping Castiel’s arms, shaking them in a way that resembled the tremor of his own body. “Hit me…” He growled out, “God damn it Al, hit me…” His voice dropped to a tone of pure begging, eyes clouded with a sick sort of anticipation. Behind that Castiel could see the fear, the acknowledgement of the crime that would be committed against him. ‘Al’, Castiel thought, ‘Alastair’. 

It was sickening, and the simple realization made him want to run back to that bar and deliver the demon to hell himself. However, that was not ideal. Grabbing Dean’s wrists, Castiel held him away from his body, mostly to protect both himself and Dean from the man’s uncontrollable actions. “Is this how he calms you down, Dean?” Castiel asked as gently as he could, watching the agony drift into Dean’s features. “By using you like this? By making you want what he has no right to give?” Dean backed up then, arms jolting in Castiel’s grip, eyes dropping to the floor. It was then that Castiel remembered Dean was utterly and completely naked. That was not helping this situation at all. Dean felt overwhelmed; Castiel knew that the man wasn’t going to be leaving this head-space any time soon. The man before him fell back, landing on the bed as he attempted to get away from Castiel’s concerned gaze. He quickly moved to his stomach, looking up to see Alastair standing there, eyes ablaze. Castiel watched the stitches on Dean’s chest catch on the edges of the open skin at the vast range of Dean’s movement. 

“I’m sorry…” Dean murmured, pushing himself back on the bed, ass up in the air.  
“I’m sorry!” He sobbed loudly and Castiel rushed to his side, adjusting himself on the edge of the wide bed. Resting his hand on Dean’s head he attempted to sooth the other man, unable to know what exactly was going on. “I can be good…I can be a good boy.” Castiel’s eyes widened then darkened instantly, fury running through his veins. He attempted to pull Dean up, wrapping his hands around the man’s shoulders, but the man wouldn’t budge. “No!” He shouted, eyes distant and wide. “I can be good…I promise! I’ll be good!” Dean’s submissive position didn’t change, and Castiel grew even more agonized as concern rampaged through his temples. “Dean…” He whispered gently, eyes filled with edgy worry. It was then that Castiel realized what needed to be done. He had seen this before in his training. Reaching out to rest his hand on Dean’s head once again, he sighed heavily, dragging his fingers through the man’s hair and tracing his fingertips across his wounded back. 

“You are a good boy, Dean.” Castiel whispered, continuing to stroke the man’s back carefully. “So very good…” He stayed like that beside Dean until the shaking had begun to subside. “Now Dean, I need you to lay down on your back.” Dean instantly began shaking again, but did as he was told. Castiel pretended not to notice the incredibly beautiful scarred skin that shifted before his eyes. Dean lay down as he was told, legs spread lightly as he rested himself against the pillows at the headboard. When Castiel didn’t move right away, Dean grew further into himself, eyes growing even more distant. Soon enough, Castiel’s fully clothed body was draped over Dean’s though still minding the man’s wounds. He kept himself up, hands on either side of Dean’s face. “Dean…” He murmured, and Dean’s eyes opened instantly, having just closed that at the sensation of having another human being so close.

Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s, their lips inches apart. Dean whimpered and that was all the encouragement Castiel needed to continue. Skin met skin, lips moving in perfect time, and Castiel couldn’t help the thought of ‘mine’ that drifted into his mine. ‘Finally mine’. With a soft sigh Castiel pulled away, blue meeting that terrified green once again. “  
“Dean…” With whispers of the man’s name, he kissed Dean’s forehead, watching the man below him with careful consideration. 

“Cas?” 

The sound of his name brought Castiel out of his revere, eyes seeking out those that seemed to flutter away from him. 

“I’m here Dean…” 

Something amazing happened in that moment, something Castiel wasn’t expecting in the slightest. Dean Winchester: a bloody, broken, and shattered man was attempting what Castiel saw as a smile. It was small, simply a lifting of lips, but he still saw it. He still felt the meaning behind it. 

Castiel slowly kissed him again and Dean let him, the kiss soft and discrete and yet filled with so many unsaid words that it made Castiel’s heart ache. An ache so distinct it flamed like a bonfire in his chest. Slowly, as not to disturb Dean or his wounds, Castiel rolled onto his side beside Dean. Gently, as though afraid to break him now, Castiel laid his hand on an uninjured patch of skin on Dean’s chest. Dean kept his eyes on the ceiling, small tremors still wracking through his weak body. 

‘Why?’ He thinks, ‘Why did…?’

He doesn’t realize that his thoughts have materialized into actual sound and Castiel blinks at the question. He closes his eyes and focuses on that, ‘why?’ Why ultimately had this happened? Why had he been unable to sleep without thoughts of Dean drifting into his unconsciousness? Why was this man in his every painting, his every singular creation? 

“Your special…” Castiel murmured, finding his mind far too tired to make fully coherent sentences. Dean’s episode had taken quite a lot out of him. (Heck, he’d been tired to begin with.) 

Dean’s eyes close, unable to understand any meaning behind it. He tries to focus only on the hand resting on his chest rather than the burning ache in his muscles and body. Castiel was there beside him, the man he’d been praying for, and Dean had to make sure he remembered these moments, because… because surly tomorrow Alastair would come for him. Alastair would come with apologies and complaints all tied into one and Dean would fall for it. He’d keep his head down, hands behind his back, and allow Alastair to take him back. He always did after all. Letting his eyelashes flutter for a moment he glanced over at Castiel, seeing that the man was already asleep. 

Dean allowed himself to smile for a moment more, his mind slowly gathering back where it belonged. In that moment he swore he could feel his soul flutter as though it knew this man. 

In that moment he was Castiel’s.  
Or he could pretend he was.

His sight moved to his own arms, seeing the lengthy lines of stitching down each of them. They were like crimson tinted collars, for that was all he was in the end. A beast.

A beast that Castiel would never see.  
A beast that Alastair loved.  
Alastair loved him.  
That’s right.

Attempting to believe that as a tear slipped down his cheek, he sought out the hand resting on his chest with his own. Allowing his scarred fingers to trace Castiel’s, watching tan cover crème in the simplest of ways. 

“Good night…” He heard the whisper, and at first it surprised him that Castiel was still awake. Eyes then closing on their own accord, Dean felt himself seep into those words as his body lay heavy on the mattress.

For the first time in a long time…it was a good night.  
A good night spent beside a good man.  
A good night spent beside an angel.


	6. What Are You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel ponders over his feelings for Dean, and Dean is all the more confused by his attraction to Castiel. Discovery occurs for both of them, each trying to tell the other what they actually are. Fate is painful, but maybe for them, it doesn't always have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. Thank you all so much for reading and sticking with this story, this chapter has taken me forever to write. It seems that my muse likes to flee in times of dire need, so you can blame it for how late this chapter is. All in all, I really love some aspects of this chapter. So, if you were hoping for slightly comfort, you're in for a treat. However, hurt Dean is always right around the corner. (Obviously.) Hope you all enjoy, and thank you again for all of your wonderful comments and kudos. They always make me smile and continuously inspire me to write more of this story.  
> Unfortunately due to my schedule I was unable to completely get through editing this chapter, so as always I apologize for any and all grammatical/punctual mistakes.  
> Thank you so much you guys. (:
> 
> Hope you enjoy, the feels are strong with this one.

Morning came in a blissful melody, the wind sweeping in through the still partly opened window. Castiel’s eyes opened unwillingly and he slowly moved to stretch out across his usually cold bed. This morning however, he froze, realizing there was a presence there beside him. Dean. That’s right. Slowly moving to lean on his side (that still ached) he stared contently at the sleeping man. In his sleep Dean was…well an angel. The worry and resentment of his ordinary demeanor was all but gone, his skin rough but gentled by unconsciousness. Castiel wondered briefly if Alastair ever did this, simply sit and watch Dean in a moment where he seemed truly at peace. Castiel doubted it greatly. 

He hadn’t meant to, but his hand moved on its own accord as it began to map out Dean’s warm chest. His fingers traced some of the large raised scars that riddled the raw expanse of skin, carefully avoiding the newly treated wounds. They were like small doorways to Dean’s life; each one representing a time that Castiel knew was seared into the fabric of the other man’s soul. It wasn’t just the abuse that rocked Castiel’s world off kilter; it was the motive behind the abuse. 

_‘I can be a good boy.’_ Dean had said, and those words echoed around in Castiel’s head like a bird attempting to escape a cage. He allowed his hands to search further, running up Dean’s chest to slightly graze the man’s firm jaw. It was pure beauty; that face of his. For a moment it was easy for Castiel to forget about the darkness that brought Dean to his bedside. Seeing Dean like this was freeing in a way that even a bird would envy; a series of thoughts that used to stem off of something akin to fear that now rushed from all the things Castiel chose to forget. Castiel’s fingertips grazed the strange pentagram tattoo that rested over Dean’s softly beating heart, tracing the almost sun-like outer shell. So many things about this man brought out the greater curiosity in Castiel. 

Castiel allowed his mind to romp across the raw skin before him, the small rifts of daylight making it hum with a tan glow. Darkness on the inside of Dean’s thigh caught his attention, and he blinked as he shifted a bit closer to the body beside him. Being careful not to wake the other man, Castiel slowly reached out to push back at the skin there, avoiding the very obvious fact that the man was naked and that Castiel’s face was inches away from Dean’s set. There on the inside of Dean’s right thigh, suffocating under the weight of scarred and sensitive skin was the single letter A. It was bold, Gothic lettering and Castiel felt his eyes narrow at just how far the man had gone to mark Dean as his. That’s all the scars were on Dean’s precious body, manually written pieces of manuscript all in Alastair’s handwriting. 

Now that he’d thought about it, Castiel hadn’t been paying attention to the obvious tattoos mixed in among Dean’s flesh. He’d seen them once before when he’d treated Dean, but when he’d attempted to paint them he’d already forgotten what they were of. As for last night, he’d been far too busy acknowledging the state of the other man, of his wounds and distorted psyche that he hadn’t even given a thought to the patches of colored skin. There, above the left side of Dean’s Adonis belt was the most fascinating tattoo, obviously of some meaning to Dean. A black outlined ribbon was wrapped around what seemed to be a small green army man, the initials ‘S.W’ and ‘D.W’ looking as though carved into the ribbon. The ends of the ribbon faded into what seemed to be two black Lego pieces, looking childish and new among the scars that surrounded it on Dean’s skin. The tattoo in itself was no bigger than four inches tall and three wide, but it seemed to demand attention from Castiel as though it was acutely a piece of Dean’s soul. 

A slight whimper brought Castiel out of his revere, and he peered up at the source of the noise. Dean’s body began to slowly shake, eyebrows edged together in what seemed to be some sort of pain. Castiel was afraid to wake the man, afraid of the reaction Dean would have when he awoke from a nightmare just to find Castiel distrustfully beside him. Slowly, Castiel moved up to rest beside Dean once again, this time slowly resting his right hand against Dean’s heated cheek. 

“Shhh…” Cas murmured, allowing his thumb to gentle at the skin beside Dean’s mouth. The man began to thrash, and Castiel worried for his wounds. 

 

_“What the hell are you doing!?”  
There goes the glass, and there goes the light._

 

“Dean…” He whispered in the man’s ear, nuzzling up to his face. 

 

_“It’s all your fucking fault.”  
There goes the book, and there goes the vase._

 

The man beside him hesitated in his movements for a moment, and Castiel thought it was over, but far too soon Dean began shaking once again.

_“You worthless piece of shit.”_  
 _There Dean goes. A piece of glass on the floor, smashed into little bits of himself._  
 _Hands filled with shards that could only reflect back at him the very thing he hated._  
 _Blood was there beside him, on him, around him. A friend in the darkness, the only thing that wasn’t stained black and filtered with cobalt blue. Blue like the ocean, so thick and endless that Dean was lost in it forever as a child._  
 _Blue like…_

_Castiel…?_

Castiel hated it, but he’d seen the way the words had calmed Dean earlier and he decided that it could be useful in that moment.  
“You’re a good boy, Dean…” Castiel whispered in his ear, making sure to keep his voice low and balanced. He did his best to reinforce the edge in his words, wanting to make sure Dean knew that it was not Alastair whispering such words.

Dean’s body instantly began to relax and Castiel allowed a small smile to settle on his lips.

Images of perfect blue eyes drifted into Dean’s mind, limbs merging over what was once the all-too-real terrorist of his life. If it weren't for the haze that started to creep in he would have laughed at the audacity of it all.

“Such a good boy…” Castiel murmured again, content to see the lines of worry drift away from Dean’s face. He remained still as he lay beside Dean, continuing to whisper praises lightly to the man until he was sure the nightmare had passed. With a contented sigh at the situation he had solved, Castiel carefully moved off of the bed, stretching as he went. He decided it was in his best interest (and Dean’s) to go forth and make a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long morning after all. 

A few minutes after Cas had left the room Dean began to stir. First and foremost, Dean realized just how fucking comfortable the bed he was laying on was. He moved to roll over into it, to take all the bed had to offer him when a sharp pain down his side stopped his movement. Wincing as eyelids slowly fluttered open against a much lighter world, Dean peered down at his body. It was then that he realized this wasn’t his room, and all the more that he was completely and utterly naked. Reaching up to rub at his bruised jaw memories, fuzzy yet there, began to play through his mind. 

‘Cas…’ Dean blinked, ‘Cas had taken care of him…Cas had…’ With a blush deeper than the color of his many wounds, Dean moved to get out of bed, only now noticing that the spot beside him had still been warm. Had they…? ‘No’, Dean reassured himself as he took in the lack of pain from his backside, ‘Cas would never take advantage…’ Glancing around, he decided to borrow a pair of boxers from the open drawer on the side of the room. Hoping that it was all right to do so, Dean carefully stepped out of the room and into the small kitchen that rested just down the hall. 

When Dean entered he was met with the fresh smell of brewed coffee and the light overall scent of citrus. The smell he’d eventually come to recognize as completely and undeniably, Castiel. Castiel turned to face Dean the moment the other man walked in, and he grinned at him. “Morning sleepyhead.” Then slowly his smile fell as he better analyzed Dean.  
“Are your wounds doing alright?” He asked gently, and Dean immediately nodded.  
“Yeah, thanks to you.” Dean said, rolling his shoulder and hearing it pop.  
“Um, thank you again for…for everything.” It seemed slightly awkward, and Castiel understood why. How often did anyone ever do anything for Dean?  
How many times had Dean even spoken those words in his entire existence? 

Whilst Castiel was deep in his thoughts, Dean had taken it upon himself to explore the room just off to the side of the kitchen. He figured that this was Castiel’s space, easels and paintings lining the walls and a majority of the room. Paints rested across the large shelves off in the corner, taking up quite a bit of space for the already small room. Dean was about to turn around and head back into the kitchen when his eyes landed on a painting, still resting on the easel in the very front-most corner of the room. He stepped towards it, legs shaking slightly as he took in the very obvious image of himself. Not just his face, but his whole body, his scars and even small blurs of black from where Castiel must have seen his tattoos, but not have fully known what they were. Dean’s fingers slowly reached out towards the painting before him, eyes wide as he slowly allowed his fingertips to touch the rough areas of paint. This was the first time that Dean was really seeing himself in years, the first time he’d allowed himself to actually ‘focus’ not just glance. It unsettled him to photograph this in his mind, to have an image of what his body truly looked like. Embarrassment aside from his naked appearance, he began to shudder as the beast within him stirred. Ugliness, that’s all he could see. Worthlessness, brokenness, fearful and aged with punishing blows…that’s all the body was before him. It was all tan and marred, simply pieces of a puzzle that Alastair was forced to put together because Dean was too weak to do so himself. All he could do before he hit the ground was let out a low-pitched whine, a whine that held so much self-inflicted agony that he startled himself. He was shaking and he knew it, but the words echoed across his mind as though Alastair was sitting right beside him. He could feel the ghost hand card through his hair, the other pressing against the wounds on his side. 

**“Worthless. Ugly. Worthless. Ugly. Worthless. Ugly.”**

Dean gripped his arms, pulling his knees up, vaguely aware that someone was calling his name. His wounds stung at his actions, but he ignored them, lost in his own oblivion. Alastair…he needed to get back to Alastair. He’d know what to do; he’d know how to handle Dean. Nodding to himself Dean tried to stand, but his body refused to stop shaking. He was suddenly fearful as he felt two hands grab at his arms, a presence before him that he had not been aware of until now. Dean fought back against the hands preventing his movement, a growl tearing from his throat, making the presence flinch for just a moment before it’s grip became stronger. 

His weary mind drifted back to the place where he’d began, the place that he felt truly alive and he began to feel the familiar stir in his stomach. His growls took on a deeper tone, far more animalistic than they had before. Castiel’s eyes widened and he fought against his own body as his muscles screamed at him to back away. Dean’s face was contorted in a stern and sickeningly fierce expression. Frightened yet on the defense like a wounded animal. This was a side of Dean that Castiel had yet to see, and in that moment he decided that he didn’t like it. At all. (In fact it terrified him.)

“Dean.” Cas said sternly, voice edgy.  
“Dean, it’s me, Castiel. You’re in my apartment. You’re **safe.** ” 

His attempt at reasoning with the battered man was failing as Dean continued to thrash about whilst bearing his teeth. Castiel’s mind flashed back to the words Alastair had spoke when he was treating Dean. 

 

_“How many?” Castiel’s voice was low, trying to keep the edge off to avoid suspicion._  
 _“Fights, you mean?” Alastair asked offhandedly, his smug posture throwing Castiel off._  
 _Alastair paused for a moment and hummed, taking Castiel’s silence as an affirmative._  
 _“Only two so far this week. Pathetic to get beaten this badly, I know. I thought I trained him better than that.”_

‘Trained…’ Castiel thought, eyes narrowing at the man before him. 

_“He will be fine. Though, he lost extreme amounts of blood and will need extended bed rest. I expect you to change those bandages, and I've laid out all of the items you will need to take care of him for the next week.”_

_Castiel stated, voice completely devoid of emotion._

_Alastair scoffed, his attitude changing from playful to irate within seconds.  
“He has a match tonight.”_

Castiel flinched as he backed Dean up against the wall, the man having somehow managed to get up on his own. Face-to-face Castiel could see it; see the flicker of blood-lust behind those brilliant green eyes. Hell, he’d seen it enough back in his training days. This wasn’t Dean right now, this was…this was Alastair. This was Alastair inside of Dean. These were the pieces of Alastair that Castiel realized he’d probably never reach. 

It was then that Castiel realized how hopelessly he’d clung to the idea that he could somehow separate the two in just one night. One night was not enough to heal the wounds the other man had instilled outside and inside of Dean. One night was the epitome of useless hope. 

**“Dean.”** He voice dropped, remember the way Alastair spoke. He bit his lip at the anticipation of what he was going to do, but leaning forward beside Dean’s ear as the man thrashed he refused to hesitate. He needed to bring Dean out of this, and if he had to reaffirm Alastair’s idea that this monster inside of Dean was good, he was willing to try. Reassure, reaffirm, and pull Dean out of this hell. 

_“He’s my partner,” Alastair had said, “mine to do what I want with.”_

**“You’re beautiful like this.”** Castiel said softly into Dean’s ear, holding the man’s arms up against the wall.  
“Even like this.” Dean instantly froze, his hazy eyes seeming to gather some awareness of his surroundings then. All that Castiel could hear in that moment was the raging sound of his heart beating against Dean’s, uneasy and labored as though they’d ran a marathon over the span of a few seconds. When Castiel pulled back slightly to peer into those beautiful eyes, Dean looked as if he was a shot animal. Wounded yet still alive, weary of what might happen if he survived this encounter. Dean was shutting down and Castiel could see it, his body slowly going limp in Castiel’s arms. The words must have resided somewhere inside of Dean, a more pliant and careful side, and though that worried Castiel it also relieved him greatly. Wrapping his arms around Dean as the man fell forward, he sighed heavily into his neck. (Seeing as Dean was slightly taller than him.) 

“You’re always beautiful.” Castiel reaffirmed, wanting Dean to understand what Castiel thought of the man he barely knew. Dean grabbed on to the back of Castiel’s shirt, his fingers digging into the fabric and clinging tightly to it. At this angle Dean was once again able to see the large portrait, and he narrowed his eyes at it. It was then that Dean finally realized the significance of this painting. These wounds were from the week that Alastair had…more than usual…used Dean in the ring. These were old, some closed in the days when Alastair had been taking care of him…treating him… Dean’s eyes widened as he stared at the portrait, tracing down to his thighs and catching the dark hand marks that rested on each side. Castiel had…Castiel…

 

_Eyes fluttered open at that moment, searching as their vision returned, albeit hazy. Irises met in a flurry of light and color, blue and green crashing like the tidal wave... Dean smiled for a moment, feeling the familiar pressure on his neck. This was Alastair, Dean knew that, but for that brief second of feeling he was able to see the beautiful blue-eyed man.  
“Angel…” _

**“Angel…”** Dean whispered and it was Castiel’s time to freeze, eyes almost trembling in their sockets. Castiel had been the one to treat Dean’s wounds, then and now. He’d been there in Alastair’s room, in their room. He’d seen the hand marks, the blood. How much had Alastair told him? How much had Alastair hid from Dean? 

He’d seen the monster inside of Dean…  
And now he’d heard it, had just a glimpse of what Dean really was.  
And he was…he was still here. Still holding him with the goddamn strong arms.  
Castiel’s hands lulled circles into his wounded back and all Dean could do was shiver. 

Stronger than the relief that Castiel wasn’t throwing him away in disgust was the utter and overwhelming sense of betrayal. He’d felt it continuously from Alastair after all, but Dean had always deserved it. It was cruel and clean-cut, obvious with the rules and punishments laid out before him. This time though, this time Alastair had cut him with kindness and a smile that Dean had fell for once again. A smile that sang to his soul in a way that Dean had thought he’d needed. Still needed, regardless of the situation at hand. Alastair wasn’t there though, and all Dean had was this beautiful and obviously distressed man holding him in his lover’s place. This man’s soul was alive and Dean swore that he could almost see it running over shoulder blades and muscle. 

“Are you alright now, Dean?” Castiel said softly, still supporting the man, but backing away enough to get a full view of Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes chased his for a moment, both men searching for something in those irises that would unlock the secret to this peace they were both feeling in each other’s arms. 

“What are you, Castiel Novak?” Dean asked, a tiny pulling back of his lips as he kept up eyes contact.  
“I’m not quite sure at the moment.” Castiel smiled, eyes softening blissfully at Dean’s smile.  
“What exactly are you, Dean Winchester?”  
Dean laughed lightly, and Castiel was reminded of the mental recording he’d made of it to play back later. It was nothing like hearing it in person. It was all the things that Dean seemed not to be. It was light and airy, careless and free. Clean. Untainted. It was easy for Castiel to see who Dean used to be before all of this. It was easy to see the light within Dean that had been covered by so much darkness.  
“I’m not quite sure at the moment, but…I know what you are.” 

“Oh yeah?” Castiel said with a smirk.

Dean’s shaking hand moved to Castiel’s cheek, his thumb brushing just past the right side of Castiel’s lips. 

“An angel.” This was followed by a burst of laughter from Castiel that made Dean even weaker than he’d been before. It was low and deep, but it held a simple childishness that reminded Dean of a long ago memory. His father’s laugh had once sounded so similar, on the nights when Dean and him sat out on the porch of his childhood home, passing stories that only an innocent soul could create. 

“Where are my wings then Dean? If I was an angel than I’ve obviously fallen.” Castiel said as if it was the only thing he was sure of in the world. He let Dean’s hand fall from his face as he glanced around the room, sighing lightly.  
“Does this look like the accomplishments of an angel, Dean?” 

Dean’s eyes followed Castiel’s gaze around the room, and he just sighed softly.

“I see…” Dean stepped up to the painting of himself, and then glanced at the other ones surrounding it. He traced the canvases and the various rows of paints on the shelves. He paid attention to the details hidden in the works, the small bits of images that Castiel had seen far too much of in his career. 

“An angel making his imprint on the world.”

Castiel was leaning against the wall, surveying Dean with intense eyes. (Because let’s face it, Castiel had one setting for his eyes and it was intense.) The compliment fluttered within Castiel in a way he imagined wings would feel if they beat against your ribcage. 

“If that’s true, than what would they make you?” 

In a swift movement Dean ended back up in front of the painting of himself, Castiel now thankful that he had put the other ones of Dean away the other night. 

“Taint…” He said, staring at it and then down at the skin he could see on his body.  
“Sin…” Murmuring the words as he hesitantly touched the stitches on his left arm.  
“A beast within a broken body…” He laughed as the words came out, but this was not the real laugh Castiel had heard before. It was the beast inside of Dean, the wallowing guilt and pity mixing in with the once light sound. 

Castiel stepped forward, approaching Dean from behind and wrapping his arms carefully around his mid section. The angle was awkward for a moment, managing to rest his chin on Dean’s shoulder with some added effort. He had no clear vision as to where Dean drew lines at physical affection from a somewhat stranger, but he guessed it was more than welcome. (Seeing as they’d spent a great deal of time touching each other in the past few hours.) 

“Alastair is the beast…” Castiel said as gently as he could, curious to see if Dean would defend the man, this ‘master’ and ‘lover’ of the shattered man before him. However, Dean said nothing, just continued staring at the painting with narrowed eyes.  
“He is taint and sin.” Castiel continued, only hesitating slightly at the hitch in Dean’s breath.  
“You are a man. You are light and sound and color. You are nothing like that beast.” 

There was a long unsettling silence that followed those words and for a while Castiel thought Dean might not say anything at all.  
Then the silence was broken in a swift locked-jaw sentence. 

“You don’t even know me, Cas.”

Castiel smiled, “Then I hope that you’ll allow me to get to know you, Dean. The man that pretends he is a beast.” 

“The man who knows he’s a-“ 

As though he had the strength of ten men, Castiel spun Dean around and gently planted a kiss on the man’s lips. Dean’s eyes seemed fearful, but they slowly closed as Castiel deepened the contact. 

When Castiel pulled away he could clearly see Dean’s ultimately confused expression. With a gentle smile he shrugged innocently and slowly turned his back to Dean. Without another word he headed out of the room, leaving Dean with a half-smile on his face.

“Coffee’s done!” Castiel called from the other room and Dean sighed contently once again before slowly heading into the kitchen. 

Maybe it was true what they say about finding your soul mate. A complete stranger you meet by a simple play of chance, and when you’re together you realize it wasn’t really chance at all. Fate, but Dean Winchester didn’t believe in fate. Castiel though, Castiel was certain that he could prove that to Dean with warm cup of coffee and half of a doughnut that he had been keeping in the fridge.


	7. I Can Feel It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't believe that any of this is as it seems. Unable to understand Castiel's motives and the realism behind his actions, he faces fear and a revelation on what freedom truly is. (With somewhat sad cuddles at the end. c:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all of you! I am so sorry for the long hiatus! School is far more difficult this year than I thought I was and with all of my testing I've been extremely busy. Due to this, my precious story was put on the back burner of life. *Insert Tragic Tears Here* However, I've brought to you the next chapter, unable to give you a full prediction of when the next one will be up. I will do my best to work on this whenever I get the chance to! (: Some more Deanwhump here, because why not? ;) I thank you all for your kudos/comments/bookmarks. Honestly, I adore reading comments and your likes make me squee. <3 Hope to get back to you all soon, and as always, I had limited time to edit this chapter, so I apologize for any spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. :3  
> Ta-Ta for now~

Alastair sat on their shared bed, eyes roaming the walls that the man he loved had painted when they’d first moved in. It hadn’t been much then, a fraction of the elegance that Dean had added to the small space. With closed eyes he could almost imagine the moment that they’d decided to buy the bar, to renovate it. There was a glint in Dean’s eyes that resonated deep in Alastair’s soul then, and every time the thought grazed his mind he longed for it. He’d broken it. Murdered it. Replaced it with the version of Dean that he believed was best for the both of them. On nights like this, whilst Alastair is alone on their bloodstained bed, he regrets the decisions that led both Dean and him here. It’s on nights like this when…his humanity comes back if only for a moment to remind him of how much he’s lost. 

_“Come on Al, hurry up!” Dean yelled, rushing up the stairs with Alastair’s hand clenched tightly in his own. Alastair was somewhat taller than Dean, and the ceiling had been shorter then, the top of his head lightly bumping it as they went up. “Well…” Dean said once they’d reached the top of the stairs, standing in the doorway of the bedroom Dean had been working on for weeks on end. “What do you think?” Alastair glanced around the room, taking in the beautifully painted walls and the newly renovated wooden floor. Their bed rested in the middle of the room, lowered almost to the floor, but that’s how they’d had it at their old apartment. It brought about a sense of familiarity in Alastair that forced him out of his awed revere. “It’s beautiful…” Alastair said gently and Dean elbowed him in the chest. “Told ya I could do better than a fucking interior decorator.” Alastair let out a deep laugh and pulled Dean to his chest, resting his chin atop the other man’s head. “Yes, you did.”_

Alastair hadn’t seen that smile in years, that bright and unavoidable light that used to be Dean. Alastair’s body began to tremble and his hands flew up to grip at his hair. In a random fit of burning anxiety he shot up and began tearing the sheets off of their bed. He made sure to rip them as they passed through his long-nailed fingers, even going as far as gripping pieces of the fabric with his teeth. He screeched over and over, his voice like a lion’s roar as he threw off the pillows, attempting to destroy them to the best of his ability. For all Alastair knew Dean could be dying out on a street somewhere, or he could still be out in the alley where he left him. Alastair’s pride as a master refused to let him go check on Dean, the beast needed to learn his lesson. Regardless of what Alastair believed he should be doing in that moment the need to establish his dominance came first. Dean was his, and Dean had almost lost. Dean had almost left him, that worthless piece of shit. That worthless…no, he meant so much to Alastair.

Dean was **his.**  
Dean would always be his.  
Dean would not survive without him.  
Dean would always come back.  
Dean would…  
Dean…

Alastair’s breathing evened out as he peered down at the sheets in his hands, glancing over the bloodstains that still reminded. Red against white, the most beautiful combination of colors Alastair had ever seen. It reminded him of the first fight Dean had participated in, the beautiful stretch of tan and snow white covered in a thin layer of life. Leaning forwards slowly, Alastair allowed his tongue to trace the outline of a particularly large remnant of Dean’s blood, feeling the dry liquid return to life on his appendage. Eyes slipping closed he allowed himself to revel in the taste of Dean, in the taste of his pet’s fear, sweat, and pain. It was, as always, soothing to Alastair’s very soul. He was still in control of Dean; he was still the one holding the leash. (And the whip, to Alastair’s content knowledge) He would go find Dean in the morning while the light was still new, less people that way, less roaming eyes. Dean would welcome his aid, tell him how very sorry he was (As he should be) and all would be well. All would be as Alastair wanted.

Alastair slowly dropped the now wet strip of cloth on the bed and sighed contently. Yes, all would be well. Lying back on the bed he stared up at the semi-black ceiling, closing his eyes momentarily at the familiar buzz of the outside lights. The air still smelt of sweat, but there was a small flitting scent of Dean’s blood in the air, and that was enough for him to hold onto. It was enough for him to remember who he was, who Dean was to him; what Dean was to him. For that was always what this fighting was about, what the core basis of each and every wound he inflicted on Dean was. Love. He loved Dean, adored him, and favored him more than anything in the world. That was why he needed to remind Dean, show him how much he loved him, push it and grind it into every fiber of the man’s being. That was the only way he could show the man how much he loved him, how much he truly wanted to keep him. His. 

His pet,  
His beast,  
His lover,  
His man,  
His shadow,  
His air,  
 **His.**

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After coffee and simply one doughnut (Castiel insisted he eat the last one) they sat down on the couch, enjoying the others company albeit hesitantly. The intimacy in the air was all too new for Dean, his body edging on the corner of utterly tense as it was trained to be. Castiel was looking at him so intensely that he felt he might break into pieces if the other man kept it up for much longer. 

“Um…” Dean cleared his throat, coughing lightly into the back of his hand as he peered around the room. Thankfully it was enough to shake Castiel’s attention from him to the wall beside Dean. 

“Dean…I don’t want to ask, but-“ The man’s eyes dropped to the ground scanning his old carpet before rising to watch Dean’s face contort into hard stone. Dean was by far the most difficult human to decipher that Castiel had ever met. 

“Then don’t.” 

Castiel sighed heavily, stretching out and peering at Dean once again. 

“I really want to know…about you…especially if-“

“If what, Cas?” Dean interrupted again, his voice weighing heavily with exhaustion. This is just what Dean was dreading. It was too new, all of this; all of the air around him was foreign and uneasy. This was why his place was beside Alastair, commonplace, natural, perfectly aware of his role and reason for existence. 

“If you’re…” Castiel paused for a moment, running a hand through his hair. “If you’re going to be staying here…?” His voice made it sound like a statement, but Castiel knew it was an unsettling question. He attempted to prompt a response from Dean, some form of an acknowledgement that Castiel wasn’t searching in the dark. 

Dean’s eyes widened as he sighed roughly, leaning forward and scratching at the side of his newfound stubble. It seemed to Castiel a good thing, a contemplation, however the words that moved from those sinfully perfect lips sent a chill through Castiel. 

“I’m not.” He said simply, but it was the deafening absolution in his words that forced Castiel’s blood to turn cold. 

“But you can’t-“ 

“ I can’t what Cas? I can’t go back? Shit man, what do you even know about my life? I mean, thank you for all of this, but…” ‘But what,’ Dean thought, ‘but I need to go home? But this was just for a night?’ The stray thoughts were drowned out however by the anticipation of what punishment might be waiting for him at home.  
“But…I need to go back…Alastair will be expecting me and-“ 

Castiel stood up and the sudden action forced Dean to cower back, slightly confused at the man’s abruptness. The man moved to stand in front of Dean then slowly lowered himself to his knees, oceanic blue finally meeting vibrant green. It was silly, this position, making Dean feel like a child that was about to get a scolding. Castiel’s eyes did not hold one ounce of disappointment or anger, there was only fear there; fear and some sort of longing that Dean hoped the other man would never direct towards him again. 

“I know I have no right to involve myself…” Castiel started before pausing to collect his thoughts.  
“But have you…Dean…really…have you seen yourself?” He asked, his eyes lighting up in a pleading manner as they bore straight into Dean’s. Dean looked down at his hands that were resting in his lap, a shudder running through his body. He didn’t want to remember the vision of himself he’d seen in Castiel’s paintings, the vision of himself that was far too close to the corpses he’d seen laying beneath him.  
“You were almost dead…Dean. You were-” Castiel’s fists clenched as he spoke, his eyes bearing the forefront of his emotions. “He almost killed you, Dean. Had I not been there you would have…he wouldn’t have co- you’d have died.” His gaze wavered for a moment, down to his hands as Dean’s had, weary of the other man’s reaction.  
“I don’t know what that man has over you, but I know for certain that the longer you remain in that…that hell, the closer you are to losing everything.” ‘The closer I am to losing everything’ He thought bitterly, “A-And I know you think you need to get back, but I… I want you to stay here if only for another night, please just…your wounds are still too new. Just one more, so I can check on them, please…for the sake of your health…” 

Dean glanced at Castiel then; the way the other man’s voice was breaking brought Dean to the edge of his emotional capacity that had filtered down to almost nothing over his years spent with Alastair. He watched each tremor that ran through the blue-eyed man’s body, each vein that clenched in hopeful anticipation. The angel before him wanted him to stay and as Dean weighed the odds, this was an okay way to go. One last night of contentment, the Last Supper if you will before the certain agony that awaited him the next morning. 

“Okay Cas…One more night.”

Castiel’s eyes lit up as though Heaven itself was reflected in them and for once Dean felt as though he’d done something worthwhile. The smile that graced him was worth whatever uncertainty he’d have to face later, leaning into the gentle hands coming to caress his cheeks. He’d be lying if he said there was not a light there, a glistening flame of some sort of sick hope resting between their chests. A fleeting moment of lips upon his forehead brought Dean out of his revere. 

“Cas…” Dean murmured as the man backed away from him. 

“Yeah?” Cas said, taking his seat beside Dean on the couch once again.

“You know that…freedom, as it stands now, isn’t possible for me?” His voice was hesitant, the words coming out choppy and official sounding. Far too much Alastair, far too little Dean. 

“Anything is possible Dean, even now. You hold your own freedom, not anyone else, not…him.” Cas said simply, watching the muscles in Dean’s neck tense. 

“Freedom is a façade, Cas. You can say what you want, but in the end everyone is owned by something. Whether it be God or the Devil, pie or beer, clothes or shit, everyone is owned by something. Freedom is a rope; God wants you to hang yourself with it. That’s the reality Cas, I just want you to realize how impossible this-“ He made a flailing motion with his hand between Castiel and his chest, “This-is.” 

A hand reached to grab his, trapping it in the warmth that was Castiel’s fingers.  
“I know that this is fucking insane.” Castiel said simply, and the unusual use of profanity forced Dean to listen.  
“Hell, I don’t even really know you, but from the moment I saw you, Dean…I just knew.” He smiled gently, worried of frightening the continuously winding man before him.  
“I just knew that I could feel something for you, from the very first time I saw the light in your eyes when I showed up at the bar. So, regardless of what you might say, I’m going to save you, Dean.” 

Dean simply scoffed, glancing down at his hand that rested in Castiel’s. 

“Okay super angel, do what you feel you gotta do.” He pulled his hand out of Castiel’s light grip and stood up, stretching as he went along. He could feel the thick burn both in his wounds and in his chest, trying to forget that Castiel had ever said anything. The man couldn’t have meant any of what he said, and if Dean managed to convince himself of anything it would be that he was right. 

Castiel simply sat there, hands in lap as he fretted over Dean’s lack of returned words. Did Dean not feel the same way? Hell, Dean was new to intimacy in general; he probably didn’t even know what love was. Alastair didn’t love him, and it seemed to Castiel that no one else had ever taught the man what healthy love was. Did Dean even know the meaning of romance? Of affection without expectation? It was only their first real day together, and Castiel didn’t plan to ruin it by scaring Dean away. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a full day of ignoring meaningful conversation, (Dean at the end of his emotional limits) Dean and Castiel spent their time watching re-runs of Star Trek & the occasional episode of a drama that Dean liked called ‘Doctor Sexy’. Castiel pondered the appeal of the show, but after seeing how content Dean was watching it, he found it was acceptable enough. 

Between episodes Castiel would tend to Dean’s wounds, carefully reapplying bandages, as they were needed and cleaning the skin around them. During these times, Dean would close his eyes and lean his head back, allowing Castiel the full view of his chest as needed. For the more intimate parts of Dean’s body, Dean would bite his lip and turn his head to the side, doing his best to avoid Castiel’s hardy gaze. Dean actually felt bad for the guy, knowing that it wasn’t Castiel’s fault that Dean was disgusted by his own body, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at Castiel until the man was completely done touching him. 

Castiel seemed okay with this, developing a deep level of understanding, attempting to allow Dean to keep his privacy whilst tending to his more sensitive areas. As the afternoon sun slowly set, Castiel glanced over at the man beside him, eyes closed and relaxed as ‘Doctor Sexy’ played in the background. This was the most comfortable Dean had looked since Castiel had left him to make coffee early that morning. Slowly standing up, Castiel moved to the TV to turn it off. Rolling his shoulders, testing the give of his muscles, he moved to Dean. Lightly shaking the other man, he smiled contently at the annoyed whines that rushed from those perfectly plump lips.  
“Dean, come on, it’s time for bed.” 

Dean’s eyes slowly fluttered open and he grunted, “It’s time to leave me alone…” He whined out, but in his tiredness simply let Castiel lift him to his feet. Castiel led Dean to the bedroom, helping the man to slump down on the comforter. His shoulder was still sore from aiding Dean to his apartment the day before, but he doubted it was anything like the pain Dean was currently feeling. 

“I have to take your shirt off, okay Dean? It’s not good for you to keep it on all night, it might stick to your wounds.” 

“Whatever….” Dean grunted, and Castiel smiled at the fact that Dean was staying with him. He wasn’t being submissive or obedient; he was simply being a cranky tired Dean. Castiel loved every minute of it. Lifting Dean up enough to pull his shirt off, Castiel lightly tugged the material up and over the man’s head. Staring down at the wounds he’d treated throughout the day he sighed heavily, resting Dean’s body back against the bed. Pulling the covers over the other man, Castiel backed up to admire the way Dean’s chest rose and fell in a steady system. 

“I’m going to go sleep on the couch, okay Dean? If you need me just-“  
“Cas…just come…here.” Dean murmured, eyes now slightly open, breathing becoming slightly more ragged. 

 

Castiel nodded slowly, surprised by the other man’s decision and slipped into the other side of the large bed. He was careful not to get to close to Dean, but when the other man realized his plan he was suddenly pulled against him. Dean rested on his back, Castiel laying on his left side, moving so his right arm gently rested over Dean’s chest. 

“Is this okay?” Castiel asked gently, breath shifting across Dean’s shoulder.  
“Yeah…” Dean murmured out, voice rough with exhaustion, his breathing picking up it’s pace. 

Then just like the night before they were lying together again, Dean’s slowly erratic breath reaching out like tendrils of panic between them. Castiel’s fingers against Dean’s chest were soothing, fingers pressed against the skin as though he could reach into the muscle and slow his heart with raw will alone. There was a hole burning in Castiel’s mind as he thought of the next morning, the morning Dean would return to that Godforsaken place. He glanced at Dean’s face in the darkness, the other man’s eyes staring up at the ceiling and yet seeing nothing. No doubt lost in thoughts of what would occur in a simple matter of hours. For Castiel, he was hoping that the morning light would never grace his large window. That they would be able to lie like this until Castiel could feel the world right itself around them. Dean’s chest was warm against his palm, the scarred skin shifting under his touch and he had to wonder just how long it had been since the other man had felt something against his body that wasn’t meant to hurt him. He soothed his hand along the raw patches of skin, lightly caressing them as he went. Castiel was careful to check Dean’s face while he moved, not wanting to frighten the other man away. Dean’s breath hitched then and he closed his eyes, unconsciously shifting closer to Castiel. With a sad smile Castiel took that as a green light to continue, running his hesitant fingers across the sensitive skin of Dean’s stomach. 

Castiel remembered briefly the way that Dean had flinched when his hand came into contact with this area before, but now Dean was simply allowing Castiel to explore. Simply allowing himself to just be, to simply exist. The thought made Castiel shudder with some sort of need he hadn’t felt since he was fairly young. This was Dean though, and Castiel remembered that the man might never be ready for such a relationship. Not after… Castiel’s eyes closed in a brief shot of anger and his body gave a slight jolt shaking Dean out of his revere as a somewhat fearful shudder rolled through the man. 

“Not you…” Castiel whispered, snuggling back up to Dean and running his hand gently down Dean’s arm.  
“It’s okay.” He murmured against Dean’s skin, content that the other man only took a moment before once again relaxing beside him. 

Alastair had taken from Dean what he had no right to, the man’s most sacred gifts. Both his soul and body belonged to Alastair (as far as Dean believed) when they should only belong to Dean himself. The image of the ‘A’ tattooed into Dean’s skin ran through his mind and he sighed lightly, a constant reminder of just how far Alastair ‘owned’ Dean. Castiel’s hand traced up to Dean’s throat, careful of the still indented bruises there, large hand prints circling the tan flesh. ‘Worse than a collar’ Castiel thought sadly, but halted in his exploration when his fingertips met a raised line of flesh. Glancing up at Dean’s throat, his eyes attempting to peer through the darkness. He could just barely make out the slight indent that rested below the black and blue prints. It continued around the base of Dean’s neck, spreading to the back of his throat where Castiel was unable to follow with his eyes. Dean hadn’t seemed to notice, or was too far-gone to care that Castiel fingers were touching an area that he himself was not familiar with feeling. 

With eyes closed in fear and rage Castiel moved his hand away, resting his forehead on Dean’s bicep. A collar had no doubt rested on Dean’s throat and Castiel wondered how many times its presence had been inflicted on the man…enough that it created a permanent indent in the man’s neck. Flashbacks of binged Animal Cops episodes drifted into Castiel’s mind, dogs with embedded collars left on far too long by their abusive masters. Dean believed himself to be a dog, so in this situation the abusive master theory worked perfectly. Alastair… Castiel winced at the amount of blood coursing through his veins, not having been used to the overwhelming feeling of anger. Anger was easy to hide, easy to ignore, but not when it came to the man lying beside him. Castiel mentally hit himself on the head for not noticing the lines early when he was sure he’d analyzed ever part of Dean’s body. However, he did give himself some credit, knowing that they were something you had to feel rather than rely on sight to notice, hidden under Alastair’s hand print shaped bruises.  
He continued to rub along Dean’s chest, masterfully avoiding the wounds he’d mapped out throughout the day. Dean’s breathing finally slowed, edging on the side of sleep before he felt the man slip under. His body held no tension or apprehension; he was simply pliant and peaceful against Castiel’s body. Castiel smiled with a sweetness that was unknown to the world around him. Slowing in his exploration, Castiel gentled himself against Dean’s tan skin; head nestled in the crook of Dean’s neck. Feeling the other man’s gentle breath against his head he found his own heart calming, worry shifting out of him as though a slate washed clean. 

“Dean…” Castiel murmured, “I love you…” He whispered gently, and he could have sworn he heard a sad soft chuckle from Dean’s soft mouth. 

“Love…” Dean scoffed, and in his sleep coated mind he had to wonder if this is what that truly felt like? A warm body curled against his, no scent of blood or fear in the still air around them, simply content with the careful rise and fall of skin on skin.


	8. Where'd You Go?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean take their separate ways, however Castiel believes that they will meet again soon.  
> (WARNING FOR NON-CON AT END OF CHAPTER)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, and let me start by greatly apologizing! Life has unfortunately caught up to me and whisked me away into a mix of busy scheduling. However, I am still in love with this story and have every intent to continue it. Here is a well deserved update for forcing you all to wait so long. (Consider it a Thanksgiving gift.) I promise that updates will regulate over the course of the next couple of months. Honestly, I do believe this chapter could be far greater, but with the short amount of time I've had to write my feels onto the page, I think it's a-okay. There is more Deanwhump ahead, tis sad, but it's also necessary for the plot to commence.  
> Thank you all for supporting it, it means so much to hear that people are enjoying this story. I'll be back soon as my muse has returned and my life begins to leave me alone (because who needs that :3).  
> (As always I apologize greatly for errors. I do not have a beta-reader and every time I attempt to edit a distraction pulls me away from my true purpose in life, which is writing for all of you. :3)  
> Well, hope you enjoy!

Castiel lost track of time, the feeling of Dean’s body beside him was more than enough to blur the lines of minutes and hours. Though he knew he’d see the man again he feared this would be the last time he’d feel him like this, acknowledge that he was alive and content in Castiel’s warm bed. Eyes long adjusted to the darkness hovered over Dean’s form, perfectly analyzing him in the underlying chill of the room. How had his heart fallen so quickly and warmly? Closing his eyes and nuzzling his head under the other man’s chin he contemplated his actions; contemplated the emotions swirling in the pit of his chest. Dean smelled of car leather with a hint of gasoline, copper and a tinge of whiskey. Castiel bet it was due to the copious amounts of liquor the man consumed on an average day, the beverage trapping itself within Dean’s very essence. Underneath that though was the ever-recognizable scent of Castiel’s shampoo, the reminder of Dean having used his shower that very morning. (Or yesterday morning, it was far too hard for Castiel to acknowledge that time had even passed.)

  
Dean smelled like him, and Castiel couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. The small whining voice in the back of his mind returned and he was unable to shake it off like he usually did. ‘Mine’. The voice echoed, ‘Smells like mine.’ Castiel let the voice have its way, allowing the possessive words to roll over his body like waves on a shore. However, he knew that Dean was not his, nor should Dean be anyone’s. Dean was his own person, free to make his own choices, free to belong to himself. Castiel felt guilt at his own inner demons, knowing full well that Alastair probably murmured the same things into Dean’s ear each and every night.  
With that in mind, Castiel leaned up carefully, his breath sliding along Dean’s jaw line until his lips reached the other man’s ear. With his eyes closed he could almost forget the scars across the other man’s skin, could almost hear the calmness in the air.  


“I love you.” He whispered gently, knowing that this was pathetic and wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself not to. Dean had never heard those words whispered with any good intent, and though he wasn’t fully there to hear them Castiel wanted them to be said.  
“I don’t know how…but I do.” He murmured before lowering his head gently back down onto Dean’s chest. The morning light was already attempting to break through his closed blinds and he could feel the panic at lost time beginning to sink into his skin. Castiel hadn’t prayed in a long time, but if there was ever a moment to do so it was now. Keeping his eyes closed he thought long and hard, sending a mental prayer to the father he used to believe in all those years ago.  


_‘God, you know I’ve been here for a very long time…and I remember many things…and I don’t know if I’m a part of your grand story, or if I’m as insignificant as I feel, but this man in front of me…he is as fragile as light and air and I know that he’s significant. I know you didn’t have me raise him from perdition for him to end up right back in hell. This profound bond… I can feel it every moment that I breathe in his air. Lord, if you care at all, please…please protect him. And I know its selfish and I’m crossing so many lines here, but…I’m begging you to lead him back to me.’_  


Castiel wanted to cry, to break down and allow the tears to swarm down his cheeks if only to prove to God how much he wanted this. How thankful he was that there was something good in his life, a small light in the darkness that had been the past few years of his existence. Lost in thought Castiel drifted for the first time, mind wandering to places he thought he’d never revisit. The next thing he knew Dean was stirring, the other man slowly shifting as his body resumed to natural human autopilot.  
Castiel’s glanced up at the man, breaking out of his own sleep-driven state to grasp reality once again. Dean was already alert and he smiled sleepily down at Castiel, seemingly not minding the closeness between them. It seemed to Castiel that Dean was trying to drag this out as well, that the morning light had no real claim on their situation.  
Castiel opened his mouth to speak, but Dean simply shook his head and tilted his face towards the window. His smile fell quickly, but his body remained calm and motionless.  


Pushing himself up and over Dean, Castiel allowed his knees to rest on either side of the man’s body before leaning down to connect their lips. It was soft and careful; the knowledge of how fragile their relationship was hidden within it. However, they both were well aware of the affliction that was haunting both of them. Dean’s right hand moved to cup Castiel’s cheek, and when the man pulled away slightly he swore that Dean’s fingers were trembling.  


“Morning.” Dean said with his signature smirk, but it seemed weak, even to Castiel’s unfamiliar eyes.  
“Morning.” Castiel parroted back before kissing him once more.  
With that Dean moved to get up, stretching out his back and wincing as his taught skin pulled at the ever-present wounds. Castiel watched him, but said noting, simply moving to get up as well. When he stood to pop his back, Dean grimaced allowing himself a light laugh.  
“Dude, you’re the one that needs help. That sounded awful.”  


Castiel glared at him with a wild smile before heading to the kitchen to make coffee. If Dean was leaving the least Castiel could do was make him a fresh cup. Dean glanced around the room; reaching for the shirt that Castiel had given him. Tugging it over his head gently he moved to pull his pants on. Despite the holes in the legs, they seemed to be acceptable enough to go out in public in.  
His walk to the kitchen was like a death march, but he allowed himself a slow pace. This was his choice; his own burden and he refused to allow any regret to seep through his skin. He watched as Castiel readied the coffee, a sad smile on the other man’s face. Dean moved to sit on the couch and though the silence was heavy it was welcomed. Closing his eyes and focusing on home-sounds, Dean allowed himself to relax in the somewhat familiar scent of the apartment.  
When the coffee was done and Dean was holding his cup the air seemed to still. Their eyes met in a flurry of light and sound and color, but Dean couldn’t draw up enough courage to keep his face up. With downcast eyes he finished his coffee, allowing himself to revel in the smooth burn of his throat.  


“Good?” Cas murmured, leaning back against the countertop.  
“Good.” Dean wished everything could be.  
Coffee was easy and typical, something he could say goodbye to. However, saying goodbye to Castiel was going to be viciously different.  
“I should probably…” Dean started, slowly moving to set his mug down on the counter. Running a nervous hand through his hair he shifted, hoping that he showed little-to-no pain on his face.  
“Get going?” Castiel finished for him, a lump in his throat. His voice was deep and foggy, unsettlingly stale. Dean didn’t know how to reason with it.  
“Yeah uh…Thanks for everything man.” Dean said with a grin as he tried to play it cool. _‘Don’t let yourself linger’._ He told himself, but the emotions that filled him were anything but curt.  
“Anytime, Dean.” The worst part about that was Dean knew it was true.  


He slowly made his way towards the door and Castiel watched him with dazed eyes. Dean was still wearing his shirt, which in theory made him more content with the situation. Dean would have a reason to come back here, to return the shirt to him. Dean hesitated by the door, rolling his shoulder blades as he peered around the entryway. What could he say? _‘See you around?’_ No.  
Castiel came to stand before him and Dean made quick on his last moment with the other man. Cupping Castiel’s cheek he leaned forward pressing their lips together gently. He felt like he was on fire; every nerve in his body bursting and popping with the agony of losing whatever he’d found here. Something in the back of his mind told him that this was never his to begin with; that the hope should never have flickered along his spine and into his chest. When he pulled away Castiel face lit up like a Christmas tree, his smile bright and beautiful.  


“Try and smile more Cas, looks good on you.”  
Cas however, let his smile falter.  
“Yeah, you too Dean. Try to smile.”  


That was that. If Dean had lingered in that doorway any longer and attempted to burn Castiel image into his mind, well, no one would have blamed him. If he’d kissed the other man a few more times, said some promises he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep, or came to terms with his life right then and there no one would ever know. Well, except for Castiel. It was their own little moment, a memory that Dean would take with him for the rest of his days. It was a dream he’d spent with an angel that God had been so gracious to send him. Though Dean never truly believed in God he swore that Castiel must have something to do with him, because perfection like that didn’t come from where Dean was made.  


Dean was lost in a revere when he entered the bar an hour later. Though he’d only been gone for a couple days it had seemed almost like months. The bar seemed older, far more warn then when he’d left it. It was closed, Alastair obviously taking some of what he called ‘well-deserved time off.’ The back door however had been open, the other man obviously expecting his presence. Some part of Dean cowered back at the thought of falling right back into the other man’s expectancy, but there was little he could do about that now. With heavy steps he clambered up the stairway, tracing the walls with his hands as he stared down at the bloodstains that marred the wooden floors. This was where he belonged. This was what he knew.  
How could he have ever thought that he deserved more? It was his own fault for believing in something better, for believing that Alastair wasn't taking care of him the way he needed to be taken care of. He deserved it because he was greedy, because he craved something more than the constant shouting of roughed up men and the aftertaste of skin on bloody skin, but that’s what kept him alive. That’s what he’d learned to depend on. Castiel was simply another owner, one that was kind and radiant, but had no idea how to keep Dean under control. Alastair offered that, offered Dean all the agony he deserved at no cost at all. All he had to do was come back, and here he was.  


The second Dean reached the top of the stairway he dropped to his knees; knowing full well Alastair was present in the room. The man turned to face him from his stance at the window, the light catching the wicked gleam in his eyes. With an angered walk so sunken and ungodly Alastair crept up to him, taking his time as though Dean wasn’t breaking down right there on the floor. Dean felt his control slipping as the fear surrounded him, blanketed him like the security and old friend would offer. (If he had any) Dean froze the second his eyes connected with the man’s boots, only a foot away from him now. The next moment found itself with Dean against the wall, body shoved hard against him.  
The other man’s fingers ran along his jaw line and Dean had to force himself not to flinch. This was Alastair, he was used to this, could get used to this again. It would take time. He knew that Castiel was one in a million, that the other man simply hadn’t understood what Dean was actually worth. It he’d know, he would have never treated Dean so gently. Alastair smiled, cupping the back of Dean’s head and pulling him into his embrace. Dean could feel the other man’s breath against the shell of his ear.  


“Dean, Dean, Dean…” Alastair murmured softly, tongue swiping out of his mouth to run along cartilage.  
“Who was it?” He asked, fingers gripping his hair. The actions allowed his nails to sink into the soft skin of Dean’s head and he winced, attempting to shift away.  
“Who did you whore yourself out to?” He growled out and Dean’s eyes widened in fear. ‘No, No, No…’ Dean’s thoughts were running rampant.  
“No one, sir.” Dean said, hoping that years of lying and utter defeat would somehow shield Castiel from any involvement.  
“Somebody fixed you up all nice, must have done a lot for that?” He whispered, nails moving up the back of Dean’s skull.  
“Did you crawl onto his mattress and call him ‘daddy’? Did you suck him off all nice and slow like you do for me?”  
Dean held himself steady, refusing to allow his body any movement, knowing that the second he showed any sign of fear the other man would take advantage.  
“Or did you beg like a two bit whore at his feet?” Using his grip, Alastair twisted around and flung Dean onto the bed. Moving quickly he covered Dean’s body with his own, holding the man down to the stiff surface.  
“Why don’t you show me what you did for the good man, Dean? Why don’t you show me what you did for him?”  


Dean couldn’t control it anymore, he was slipping under the water and there was no longer any boards to latch onto. He growled lowly in his throat, eyes narrowing at Alastair. His skin broke out in chills and though he went for a smirk he knew he was snarling.  
“There you are.” Alastair smiled contently, leaning down to caress Dean’s cheek.  
“My perfect little monster.”  
With that he proceeded to rut up against Dean, the other man thrashing wildly below him in an attempt to throw the other man off.  
“No, no, no.” Alastair tsked, sounding much like Dean’s inner voice. He always had a way of getting into the other man’s head and making his thoughts malleable in reality.  
“I need to show you who you belong to…it seems that you’ve forgotten during your little…’adventure’.”  
Dean stilled, his eyes blown wide as Alastair smirked above him.  
‘Belong’, the use of that word twisted Dean’s stomach. More like  
‘Owned, possessed, contained, detained, secured…’ His brain traced the synonyms, the true reality of his situation. However, in his search to halt his own panic his mind locked onto the one simple mix of letters. ‘Saved’.  
Gritting his teeth he closed his eyes, allowing his body to rock into the bed, remembering how he’d always fought with himself like this. Alastair’s hands tore at his clothes, at the shirt that Castiel had graciously given him, blood beginning to rush to the top of his skin. He repeated to himself that Alastair was saving him, that all of this was for his own greater good. He’d been disgusting, believing that he deserved any different. This was the punishment he deserved and he remembered that this is what he’d been made for.  
A growl passed his lips, eyes opening in a narrowed slant as he began to move against Alastair. The other man let out a pleased sound, finishing his chore of removing Dean’s clothing.  


‘I missed you.” Alastair murmured, crashing their lips together in a spit-driven flurry of movement. “My beast.”  
Dean was long gone by then, the only thing left of him was the animal bashing around in his brain. The animal loved this, fed off of this, and demanded this. Dean wanted nothing, felt nothing, the emptiness all-consuming. He was content for once to allow the animal it’s fun, for all Dean could think about was the ripped up shirt that rested beside the rickety old mattress. The wounds that Castiel had so desperately tried to heal were slowly opening as Alastair pushed against his body and he could only hope that the blood loss would reach him sooner.  


 _“I’m going to save you, Dean.”_  
The right side of Dean’s upper lip tugged up slowly.  
 _‘It’s too late for me.’_ He thought, mind drifting farther away from his body, from the very reality of his life.


	9. Like It Mattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean remembers feeling like this, it's commonplace now, but Alistair is ready to stir things up. 
> 
> (Warning for references to Non-Con)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so sorry this has taken so long (like 6 months) to update~ I've had an extremely busy time finishing up my year, but it's the summer now and my muse has returned to me. This chapter is fairly short, but the next one should be longer. I'm going to try and adjust to writing again, and hopefully develop some sort of regular update schedule~ Hope you all enjoy it and thank you so much for sticking with me~! 
> 
> Happy summer and goodbye for now~

Dean sat on the edge of the bed he’d been tied down to for what felt like years, the cuff embedded deeply into his tan wrist. He prayed that it would do its damn job and cut all the way through already, his dreams filled with crimson hues that ended in a godly haze. He held the cigarette to his lips, his free right hand trembling as he did so, surprised that Alastair even lit it for him at all. However, Alistair was a man of vices and encouraged them in all forms, if not relished in the addiction that seeped through Dean’s weak body. He let out the breath he’d been holding in, a vicious trail of smoke rushing out between his lips. Dean almost laughed. Almost.

If it weren’t for the somewhat intelligent alarm clock that sat beside the bed, Dean believed he would have gone crazy from the lack of knowledgeable time. He wore no clothes, no items that could be traced back to his person; not even his own skin for Alistair owned that too. In an ironic way, it made him feel more real than ever before. Rarely did an animal wear clothing; why would he be any different? His mind chased the idea for a lengthily moment, images of past fights clinking past the gears in his head just to pull a single thought into line. He was a blur of voices now, a mass of scars and severity, but it seemed to suit him just fine. At least the beast within Dean believed that to be the case. On the off chance that Alastair was feeling lucky, the man would take the unused side of the cuffs off of the bed and drag Dean down to the Pit. He appreciated the idea of Dean fighting without hands. Dean appreciated the idea of skin ripping between his teeth. The situation was agreeable. 

Glancing over at the clock again he noted the time, ‘6:47 AM’, he forced into memory. He didn’t know the date, the week, the month, the year, but he had that damned time and fuck everything if he didn’t hold onto that with all he had left. To which he solemnly realized, was nothing. Judging by the fresh scars that littered his skin he assumed it had at least been a few weeks, the wounds the blue-eyed man had sewn were now stark white among the rest of his skin. He knew Castiel had intended for them to heal cleanly, but after Alistair’s ‘training’ they became a mesh of festering ooze and dead fragments of the tattoos that used to reside there. He no longer could feel much of his right side, to which he reminded himself, was his own doing. It was his fault that he’d left; his fault that he’d made Alistair angry. It was his fault for not obeying, his fault for pretending, his fault for wishing, his fault for-  
**His fault.**  
His fault.  
His fault.  
His-  


“Shit…” Dean muttered to himself, crushing the cigarette in the palm of his hand just to feel the agonizing burn that stretched across the skin there; just to reach a point where the white noise crossed the warfare trenches of his brain so he could meet those eyes he longed for across “No Man’s Land”. As a victim, Dean longed for those hands every moment. As a man, Dean longed for that smile. As a beast, Dean longed for those words that put him at ease. Every part of him longed, and every part of him was reminded that it was useless. ‘This’, Dean thought as he glanced around the musty room that had become his entire world, ‘this is what God fucking gave you.’ He remembered his father had told him once that he should appreciate all the things God gave him. The irony in his father even saying God’s name made him grit his teeth into a somewhat contorted smile. What if God never gave him a goddamn thing? He opened his fist, allowing the mangled mess of the cancerous captive to roll onto the floor.  


Across the room sat the torn pieces of the white shirt Castiel had allowed him to wear, now coated in dry blood as Alistair had used it to wipe down the bed every once and a while when it got too wet to the point where his knees slid across the sheets from his position above Dean. It reminded him that he was supposed to return it, that he was supposed to return himself in it. It was also a reminder that the promises they’d whispered to each other were distant, but fond memories. For every hour that Castiel lived, Dean lived ten years. Castiel would be dead long before he would be free, and maybe it was better that way? Maybe then he could let it go, give up the fight without the damned voice screaming in the back of his mind that he had somewhere he needed to be. Somewhere he couldn’t reach. And isn’t that just the shit-flavored icing on the cake?  
Dean attempted to keep his eyes cast on the ground when Alistair entered the bedroom, his body remaining rigid where he painfully sat. The man grinned as he approached Dean, sliding onto his knees so he could stare directly into the lesser man’s eyes. With his calloused hand on Dean’s left cheek he lifted his face gently; as you would a lover in the midst of a loving conversation. The mockery made Dean’s blood still. 

“Azazel bid six hundred tonight…” He whispered against Dean’s lips as the other man attempted not to flinch back.  
“S’good.” Dean murmured back, attempting to play along to the best of his ability.  
“Gonna give ‘em hell.” Alistair said with a smirk before running a hand through the other man’s hair. “But first…how ‘bout I give you a little hell?”

With eyes blown wide in fear Dean watched the other man, his brain not connecting with the gentle confusion Alistair played at the fear in his eyes.  
“Shhh baby, it’s okay.” He murmured, rubbing his palms across scarred cheeks.

Shudders ran through Dean’s body as they always did when the other man decided to play on the one thing that could still break: his heart. It was so easy to remember the day he’d met the other man, the smug smile that graced his lips as their eyes chased after one another. The aura the other man held reeked of protection and honestly, something that Dean had never known all of his days. He wanted to fall back into that, the days that their connections were filled with casts of window light and planned excursions of soothing whispers against skin. His heart curved away from him, forcing itself up into his throat.  
‘Not gonna fucking cry.’ Dean thought, ‘Not gonna give him the satisfaction.’ 

Alistair gently pushed him back on the copper scented bed, resting his body atop the other man’s as he glanced down at him. He whispered soothing phrases, hands careful as though holding an infant. Dean closed his eyes in an attempt to allow everything to pass, focus on the back of his skull, and focus on the blood he had yet to lose.  
However, in an instant, everything changed. Alistair moved carefully onto his side, pulling Dean to his chest, his chin resting atop dirty blonde hair.  
“Do you remember the first date we went on?….” Alistair paused to laugh lightly, “You got so drunk that by the time we left the bar I had to carry you back to the car.” Dean could feel the other man’s smile atop his head, unsettling muck rolling in his stomach.  
“You kept yelling, “I’m fucking adorable!” to just about everything I said, and I don’t think I could’ve agreed more.”  
By the grace of God Dean’s frown was so permanently etched into his face that a smile could not even attempt to pull at it. (Though he thought it might break through at any moment, against his will of course.)  
“I remember on our third you made dinner, spouting off about how I hadn’t lived until I tried one of your ‘world famous Winchester burgers’. It was the best I’ve ever had to this day.”  
Dean’s eyes were watering, despite his own resolve, and he closed them once again to try and vanquish the memories that raced across his brain. What was the end game of this? Hadn’t Alistair already gotten what he wanted?  
“I remember the first time I stayed the night at your place. You were so nervous that you hid almost everything that showed signs of someone actually living there. Well, except the beer bottles, which lead to us fighting over your drinking habits.” Alistair’s voice was low and even, his words filled with emotions that Dean doubted he could understand anymore. It sounded too much like his ‘Al’, sounded too much like the man he used to know. He remembered that night, the way that the other man had held him through their fight just like this.  
Alistair moved over Dean once more, but only hovered to unlock the cuff that ripped at Dean’s skin. The second it fell away Alistair pulled the ruined wrist towards him, pressing his lips to the wound as best he could without causing much discomfort.  
“I understand.” Alistair murmured against the inside of Dean’s wrist, tucking the man back into his body, humming gently against his hairline.  
“I need you to understand.” Alistair whispered.  


**Understand.**  
Understand.  
Understand.

Understand. Understand. Understand. **Understand.**

The word wrapped itself within Dean’s brain, covering its letters with nerves and soft pink matter, delving into the very cortex of his person. Alistair moved to take Dean’s face in his hands, lips pressing together for a lengthily moment. It wasn’t hostile, filled with wishes or wants, it simply was. That was far more unsettling.  
There was then a kiss placed on his forehead before the other man shifted away from him, slowly getting off the bed and heading towards the door.  
“Azazel bid six hundred tonight.” Alistair repeated as he glanced back at Dean.  
“ Be ready to win, Dean.” With that, the other man disappeared down the stairs. Dean listened to footfalls on the stairs, eyes wide as though he was still staring at the man that had just been there. He realized that the other man had spoken his name. His name. His fucking name.  
He’d said it the way he always had before any of this.  
The way that he’d said it when he first admitted that he loved him.  


Hands pressed to his eyes as he sat up on his knees. There was a foreign feeling in his throat, one that could only be described as a human reaction. For a moment those blue eyes were forgotten and in their place were those dark pools he’d spent years in hell memorizing. He knew he was going to win that night and maybe, just maybe, Alistair might look at him again like that. Like all of this fucking mattered.


	10. An Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's experiences remind him that everything ends in blood, but there's something different about it all this time. (Or the one where you've been away from two years and you need to get the plot a-rolling because people have waited long enough)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God.  
> Hello everyone, it's been like...a couple years, hasn't it?  
> Well, though life is completely different than it was when I started this, I surprisingly haven't forgotten about it. I think it's one of those author things where your stories never really go away they just kind of creep up on you all the time. Luckily, this one keeps coming back into mind and I finally got around to giving all of you (if you're still here that is), a little bit of plot to move on with.  
> I haven't abandoned this story and have actually started on the next chapter, so yay for motivation. (If only I had the same amount of motivation for my classes...) Regardless, here's some angst, I hope you all have a lovely day and if you're still here, thank you for sticking with me.

       

* * *

 

      They say heaven is a masterpiece and hell is just the same: with community art projects, like some fucked up demon Breakfast Club. The thing is that Dean Winchester always knew there was nothing waiting for him after death. No immaculate white gate that lead him to golden streets, flurries of crystal blue shrouding him from the darkness he knew of Earth. Nor was there a fire under his skin, a horrific sense of an eternity trapped within a burning building, watching everything he ever loved crumble around him. If coffins could disguise the brutality of life then his skin should keep the blood inside of him. Alistair would later tell him that it would get easier, that the blood he could feel coating his skin would scrub off cleaner every time. He wanted to believe it, so bad sometimes that he would crawl on his hands and knees to the edge of their bed and pray that the man he loved would make him forget.

      “Al, please…” His voice an out of tune note, cracking at the edges.  
The pain made him forget why they were doing this.  
      “I can’t wash it off…” **Pathetic** , doesn’t know why he’s crying anymore.  
      “Make me –“ ‘Forget why the fuck it had to be me’.

 

      Despite the bile that trickled out of his mouth as the memory faded, Dean’s body was content not to move. The bliss, the weightless feeling that he’s grown so used to the past few days still ebbing away his hesitations. The tenderness that Alistair keeps playing has become a believable and unnatural act that Dean swears he won’t get swept away in. He knows of course that this pool of warmth will become a hurricane that he won’t survive, that the crashing tides will take him out to sea for the last time.  
With a churning in his stomach he rolls onto his side, sneaking a glance at the man lying beside him. The cuff chafes his wrist as he moves to wipe at his mouth, a constant reminder that despite the ploy, he’s as much of a prisoner in his own body than he is in his own head. Alistair seems to drift peacefully, his face calm without a trace of the sneer he so often wears. Dean’s gaze traces his hairline, catching the scars as his eyes adjust to the dim light. He faintly tries to remember what Castiel looked like while he slept, how his face was free from the marring tall tales of life; smooth and white like a porcelain doll.  
**Untainted**.  
And yet Dean had touched him.

     Closing his eyes he leans back into the bed, allowing his back to shift along the mattress, no longer wrapped in sheets, as they’d simply become a messy nuisance that Alistair had thrown out a few weeks earlier. Only after he’d made Dean clean the blood off with his tongue, to which his stomach was unsettled, creating an entirely different mess. Dean often wonders that if he creates enough of a mess Alistair will finally get rid of him, put him down like the sick dog he is.

 _‘I want_ ,’ Dean thinks, and he does.  
     For what though, he doesn’t know.

     Sometimes after a fight, after all of Alistair’s “love” he believes he knows what he wants. It’s not the hands on his hips, but the hands on his face. When the nails don’t push as a hard against his skin and the pads of scarred fingertips feel warm against his cheeks.

 _‘Yes,’_ Dean thinks, _‘I want._ ’

      ‘Because,’ he licks the dried blood off of his lip, ‘We’re both **tainted**.’

 

      When Dean opens his eyes again, Alistair is peering at him from his position on the bed. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t reached out to cup Dean’s face like he usually does. He’s just breathing; not in the wheezing way his smoke abused lungs often do, but light and airy. They hold eyes then, like a moment frozen because it’s all Dean will think about for the rest of his life. Then it happens, like it always has, but there’s a pain there that Dean has never seen before. A hesitant hand reaches out and as it cups his cheek, the thumb drags across his lower lip.

     “Al?” There’s the cracking that betrays him.  
     “ Shhhh…”

     Alistair is just staring then, eyes never leaving Dean’s, but his hand makes a pathway up the man’s cheek to his hair and lightly runs his fingers through the locks that are growing longer by the day. Hard to cut your hair when you literally can’t get out of bed. Dean wishes then that it was a Saturday morning, one back before the pit, back when this meant something, back when the burn of a cuff on his wrist meant a good time for the both of them. Now, it just hurts.

_And aches  
     And you deserve it_

     “Let’s go to the beach,” Alistair whispers into the thick air between them and for a second all Dean can do is laugh. It’s broken and cuts off into a heaving mess of breaths, and that’s when the sobbing starts.

     “Let’s see the ocean, Dean.”

      The whining starts then, the horrific sound of **begging** on the tip of Dean’s tongue.

      “Don’t do this…” Dean begs, over and over again.

      “It’s beautiful this time of the year, the water will be warm.”

      “Stop.”

      “The sun will do you some good, you’re so pale.”

      “Please-“

 **Stop.** _Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop._

       But it’s too late, Dean already sees it. He can taste the salty air on his tongue and hear the gulls in the distance, so every present and ready to greet him. In his mind palace he sees Alistair, khakis and all, laughing as he grabs Dean’s tan arm to tease him towards the water. The sun feels good, so good, too good, too warm, and Dean wonders how he ever manages to leave his mind palace.

      “Don’t do this to me.” Dean begs, but his voice doesn’t sound like his anymore, it sounds like every man he ever smashed against a wall. He won’t open his eyes, he won’t face the ocean, won’t see the reality of blood carried on the breeze. He feels the cuff pull away from his skin, hears the lock as it slowly falls off the bed. It’s **bait**.

      And how **hungry** a fish he is now.

      With a twisted smile Dean opens his eyes, one perfect tear making it’s way down his rough chin. He expects a sneer, expects the hand on his face to grow colder, but there is only crystal clear deliverance written on Alistair’s mouth.

     “Let’s go to the ocean, Dean. Like we used to.”

      Some part of Dean foresees the future, sees within himself every fucking animal movie he’s ever seen where they take the dog to his favorite place on last time before they put them down. Dean knows this, knows that maybe this is it for him, but God does he want it to be.

      “Please.” He’s so confused, so painfully inconsistent with his own timeline, and Alistair knows, and Alistair picks him up. He always knows.

      Dean is carried to the bathroom and set down on the dirty toilet that no one has bothered to clean. (Priorities, Dean thinks) His other moves to turn on the shower, and for once Dean isn’t afraid that his head is gonna be held under a burning stream. The temperature is adjusted and Dean is gently lifted into a standing position, Alistair’s hand gentle on his back and he guides both of them into the shower. Alistair’s clothes are still on and the significance is not lost on Dean.

      A hand moves to his hair and he flinches, but the other man just smiles and quickly lathers up the shampoo between his palms before rubbing it into the greasy locks. _‘How long has it been’_ , Dean wonders, _‘since I was clean?_ ’

      He hums.

      Over and over again his body trembles in disbelief, but the hands that touch him never stray, never grip or push, they simply are. For a moment Dean forgets this is Alistair at all, remembers the way his mother washed his hair when he was small, remembers the way her smile grew when he looked up at her. When he looks up now it’s just the tormentor man he knows to be his lover, but the smile grows just the same.  
      And for a second, Dean forgets that he **should** kill this man, while he’s vulnerable, while his weakest spot is exposed. Dean forgets that he’s spent the better half of his life screaming for someone to take him away from all of this. The water is warm and all Dean can think of is the beach, and he forgets the giant hole his God dug up in the backyard and leans back into the body behind him. For in that second, he swore there wasn’t any scars on the body behind him, only smooth skin that lead to the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen.


End file.
